


Drown

by Maulfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: And (hopefully) cleaned up slightly, Angst, Asgard's (and Loki's) A+ Morals, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Butchering of Norse Mythology, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not canon-compliant post-Avengers, Odin's A+ Parenting, So Many Fandom Cliches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 190,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maulfan/pseuds/Maulfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after Operation Avengers all is well. Or is it? When Steve and Tony hack into SHIELD to find missing weapons shipments they find more than they bargained for in the form of a prisoner who should, by rights, have been sent to Asgard long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Nothing from this Marvelous universe is mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to GothicCheshire over at ff.net, who beta'd fully half of this beast for me, and is generally an all-round awesome person. <3 Also, to Coneycat, whose meta was what inspired me to start writing for the Marvel fandom at all. Cheers, and I hope you like the fic!

Loki doesn't scream as his back collides with the wall, jarring his bruised side and sending a jolt of agony from his chest to his toes. He is aware, distantly, that his last rib has just cracked. It presses inwards, sharp and tearing and he doesn't care. _Does not care_.

Part of him even hopes it will pierce something. Be an _end_. The rest of him knows he's not that lucky.

He laughs. It's the wrong move, but there are no right moves in this hole he's been thrown into.

Just the cold glass mirrors which show him himself every single way he looks. Mirrors which reflect bright lights and blood straight into his eyes and which he is certain are two way devices, easily seen through from the other side. He wonders if the puny mortals are laughing at him. He knows the Norns are.

A booted foot, steel-capped and strong, slams into his side, forcing his breath out in a soundless gasp. Blood dribbles down the side of his face and he doesn't know whether it comes from inside or out anymore. His face is a broken mask of red and purple and he stinks of copper and vomit and the sharp disinfectant they clean him with once a week if they remember.

He remembers once, just once, screaming for Thor. But that had been Before. He is a monster. He deserves this, he knows. But some small, crushed part of him, the part which still knows how to scream when they come at night and the lights dim and there is only coldness and grunting and _pain_ , the part that wants to know what he needs to do to _stop_ this, doesn't want Thor to see him like he is now. Wants his hated not-brother to remember him as more than a worthless heap of _nothing_.

Rough hands drag him up by the collar around his neck. Words form, the wind of them rushing against his face. They sting, burning and burning until he tries to claw at the hands to just make them stop. He can't breathe. Can't _breathe_. The blackness is closing in and he needs to fight it because he isn't helpless and he hates being helpless on the damp, cold metal of his cell floor.

And then there is the bruising pain as he is pushed to the ground. One hand is splayed to block his fall and there is a sharp snap as something gives way. Another wave of pain rattles up his arm. It's hilarious really, that the mortals think _this_ will break him.

He lets out another wheeze of a laugh.

The door clangs once, and heavy boots thud off into the distance, sated for now, but his skin prickles like a million eyes are watching him. Or maybe that is just Heimdall, now he lacks the magic to shield himself from the watcher's gaze. It is strange, he thinks, that with all his magic bound he still isn't blue. It is there though. Lurking beneath the skin; waiting for him under the red.

He needs to move. It is too open here, in the middle of the room with air on all sides. He needs to shift, to drag himself away to a corner even though he knows it won't help. He's moved less than a meter when he is hit by the swirling blackness. And then there is nothing but frost and snow and burning ice.


	2. Rescue

"All I'm saying is it's not my concern," Tony says, rolling his eyes and sending Steve a lazy glare.

They're upstairs, in the lounge, because Steve doesn't have access to the workshop and the workshop doesn't have alcohol. The dark haired inventor is leaning back on a white couch, glass in hand, and the supersoldier is pacing in front of him, blue eyes deadly serious.

"I saw those prototypes, Stark. I held them. And those terrorists last Thursday were using the exact same technology."

"Not my concern. The Avengers are great. Don't get me wrong, Captain. But the US has been dealing under the table for years. It's not news. And if it is, you'd be better off taking it to the press."

That's a lie of course. He'd know. Not that he really wants Captain America to know that. But barring flying around the world to destroy shipments there's really not much which can be done.

Steve frowns.

"All I'm asking is for you to hack into their security. I just want to know if SHIELD is behind this or not. You've done it before, Stark."

And now it is Tony's turn to frown. Because honestly, Steve has a point. It's just that it's Steve saying it. Half of him wants to make sure he isn't working with another Obie and the other half tells him ignorance is bliss and even if they are dealing under the tables it could just be an Obie situation SHIELD has under control already. SHIELD wouldn't be SHIELD if they weren't running the long con with _someone_.

"It won't prove anything," Tony reasons, "Internal traitor, weapons thefts, deleted accounts. The records prove nothing."

Steve nods anyway, eyes dark.

"It gives me somewhere to start," he replies steadily, and remembering back to the dead apartments Tony can't say the 'no' he probably should.

"...Jarvis, see if you can give us the SHIELD records for weapons shipments," he says eventually, not looking at Steve as he gives in.

He pulls out a laptop, fingers tapping idly on the white armrest as the log-in data processes.

Ten minutes later the records are up there, every inch as slick and neat as official government documents could be. Five more minutes later and the unofficial records are there as well. Nothing. Or nothing relating to the Mark II guns anyway. It's interesting to see Latveria and North Korea on the unofficial shipments list...

"Happy, Captain?" Tony asks.

"Fury should be told someone's been stealing his shipments," Steve says.

Tony disagrees, privately. The austere director, he is certain, knows exactly which shipments have and haven't arrived. Though he's been... different... after Coulson.

"Go ahead then, boy scout. Maybe he'll give you a medal."

"This isn't about a medal, Stark. It's about doing what's right. I would have thought Howard Stark's son would have known that."

"Yeah? Well maybe-," _if he hadn't spent so much time running off looking for you he'd have had the time to teach me._

But Tony cuts himself off before the treacherous words can fly free. His father did love him. He knows that now. Shit at expressing it, at acting on it, but at least it was _there_.

"Well maybe I'm just not my father," he amends.

"I'm not asking you to be," the supersoldier says, unexpectedly, "I'm asking you to stop treating saving lives and helping people like a joke."

"Oh? Trust me, I never treat-,"

"Sir," Jarvis cuts across smoothly, "I think you should see this."

"Jarvis, I'm _talking_ here," Tony says indignantly, but then goes as still as the Good Captain does beside him.

In front of them is a visual of a cell. It is... not a standard holding cell. There are mirrors everywhere making things creepy as hell and there is blood all over the floor and walls and ceiling. Or are they just reflections? And there is someone _in_ there.

If the crimson mass sprawled face down on the ground can be called a someone. It lies like a broken doll, one limb twisted unnaturally out to the side, cloths torn and ripped to reveal bruises and blood and more blood. An iron collar twists about the throat like some perverted, self-devouring snake. A mark of ownership? But this is _America._ This is SHIELD headquarters. Not some backwater place like Afghanistan or Iraq where you can tell yourself it's okay because it's nice and far away from home.

Tony just manages to make it to the trash can in time to heave.

Steve is pale, but his eyes are blazing. Of course. He was a soldier, so of course he's probably seen worse than this. Tony wonders if that means he doesn't feel the revulsion or if it just means he is better at hiding it.

"Who is that?" Tony rasps when he's made it back to the seat. He wipes his mouth with a tissue, unable to get rid of the bitterness.

"He is identified as Prisoner #67. There is no name listed on his records, sir."

"No name?"

"None, sir."

"That's disgusting. America has rules. Standards. We're _better_ than this," Steve says, hands clenching and unclenching rapidly.

"I hear you, Captain. Preaching to the choir."

Because all Tony can see in the dark-haired figure on the floor is him.

"You know what? Why don't we go to HQ _now_ to complain about those weapon shipments. You'd get there a hell of a lot faster if I flew you there in my suit."

Steve nods grimly. Smart.

They arrive there in one hour.

OoOoOoO

In the end, it's Tony who says he wants to talk to Fury about weapons. Mainly this is because Steve can't lie to save his life and that actually works for him when he's wandering the bowls of a ship looking for #67. No one's suspicious. They've both got ear pieces connected to Jarvis to keep them in contact.

So while he's talking to an increasingly irate Fury about misplaced weapons shipments, Tony's also getting periodic updates like "still fine" and "wrong way".

He knows he should probably hold his tongue when Fury starts on responsibility and trust and saving lives.

Knows like he knows the whole point of this is to pretend they were never interested in the fate of prisoner #67. But somehow the words tear free, and he curses himself even as he remembers the broken body because he's just drastically reduced the chances of this not being tied back to them.

"What the hell is Prisoner #67 then?" he asks.

Fury's eye narrows and the effect is somehow just as intimidating as if he'd had two.

"None of your concern, Stark."

" _I'm at his cell."_

All they need now is time, and one hell of a dose of luck. Tony manages to choke any reply down, nodding stiffly instead.

But Fury doesn't stop there. There's something compelling him to continue. Push on.

"He deserves every damned thing he's getting," and Tony has to fight not to step back from the dark hatred in that deep voice, "Every damned thing."

And suddenly he doesn't recognise him. Because Fury hasn't been the same since Coulson... left. But to go this _far_.

"His daddy agreed to it. Made the clone to take back to wherever the hell he came from, keep up the noble image," and suddenly as the stranger's voice rolls on out of Fury's mouth Tony wants to be sick again. He almost wants there to be blue in Fury's eye because then it wouldn't be him. But it's brown the way it always is.

Loki. That thing on the floor was the laughing, insane demigod who'd pushed him out a window and had the balls to ask him for a drink after everything else?

_"I've got him. No one's noticed the transfer."_

Well. That made sense actually. Jarvis had been ordered to swap camera feeds just as soon as they'd done the switch. It showed only pre-recorded footage now.

"Shit, Fury. We're the good guys," Tony says.

Fury's eye is still that of a stranger.

"Leave it, Stark. It's not your concern."

And Tony wonders just why he ever thought working for SHIELD would be synonymous with saving the world.

He departs a few minutes later, leaving Fury brooding.

Hill gives him a long look as he leaves. She nods once, eyes unreadable, and goes back to examining schematics. Tony suddenly wonders if the ease of proceedings was a complete coincidence.

Steve is waiting out the back on the platform no one uses unless there's an emergency. Jarvis disabled the cameras. #67 is with him, but the face is a mess and nothing but the hair colour and height give his identity away.

And all Tony can think is _shit_ because if he were Loki he'd burn the world again for this but he can't just leave him. Can't put him back in there, even though the colder part of his brain tells him he should. Steve looks faintly sick as he holds his burden.

"Stark," he says, "I think they..." he can't continue but the expressive gesture at the torn clothes says enough.

Tony wishes Steve hadn't told him that. He wonders if Coulson would hate this as much as he does. He hopes so.

"Come here," he says, "I can carry the both of you."

And then they're gone, flying away to Stark Tower and Tony's trying not to panic as he sets Steve down and his armour is taken off by Jarvis like a two-piece by a butler.

This is Loki. This is an insane demigod with a mind-control stick and enough raw power to fuel a nuclear bomb. This is a maniac with more power issues than Hitler. This is... his eyes drift downwards to the limp, battered figure. This is someone who needs _help_.

They end up putting Loki in a spare bedroom.

"I wonder who he was," Steve says, staring at the figure sprawled on the bed.

Tony wishes Pepper were here so he wouldn't have to sponge the blood away from the face and the throat and the—hell, why did they put him on the bed?

"He needs a bath," Tony says with certainty.

They carry him through and dump him in the water tub and Tony mentally apologises to him for undressing him and hopes he won't wake up. It's very awkward to be crouched, fully clothed and wet, trying to support a man who tried to kill you and subjugate earth three months ago. This suit definitely going to be burnt though—it's covered in brown filth by the time they're done.

Eventually though, the green-eyed maniac is clean and they dress him and carry him through to the bed again. All his ribs are broken and so are his arm and four fingers. There's cuts, bruising and swelling everywhere.

Tony wonders if he should call in a doctor or take him to hospital, but he knows SHIELD. The fewer people know about this the better and Thor seemed to heal fast from Hulk-punches and dagger-thrusts. Maybe—hopefully—the broken figure on the bed is like his brother.

Steve sits down. There's a mixture of pity and disgust and protectiveness on his face which almost hurts.

Tony says, "He's Loki," because he feels he should.

Steve looks confused.

"But I thought..." he says, and Tony sighs.

"So did I. Until Fury told me it wasn't my concern and his _dad_ had handed him over to this."

"His dad," Steve echoes. There's horror in his eyes.

"Yup."

"But his magic?"

"Collar."

There is silence for a bit.

Tony sits down too.

Nothing is said because they can't think of anything to say. Tony leaves a few minutes later for the workshop. They don't know how to contact Thor, so they don't try.

Loki wakes two days later.


	3. Waffles and Chess

He wakes to a feeling of alien softness. It digs into his bruises in a way he hasn't felt in months and he's clean. Clean and sore and not smelling like concentrated lemons.

It's... strange.

He forces open bruised eyelids because he needs to know where he is.

It doesn't matter but he wants to _know._

It's a clean little room with lemon-yellow walls and a matching cream carpet and roof. A bookshelf and a chest of draws are poked into the corners, empty and bare, and a little doorway at the side might be a bathroom. There's a rustling beside him and he jerks sharply, aware of the pain in his neck and doubly aware he doesn't care.

He doesn't expect to see the Good Captain next to him. Captain Discus with his illogically indestructible shield.

The supersoldier looks like Thor and for a moment Loki can't quite place why until he sees the blue eyes which seem to look _at_ him rather than straight through him and which overflow with regret. He wonders _why_. Maybe someone else died and the captain has come to punish him for that, too.

He withdraws a little, shrinking away from the man. His side screams but he moves anyway because he's dealt with pain before but somehow the bed makes the other so much worse. He bumps into the wall and there's nowhere to run. He tries to force air through his mouth to shape the words he wants to say, words to wound and disgust and keep at bay, but all that escape his mangled throat are whimpers.

Rogers leans forwards on the bed, one hand outstretched. It drops to his side a moment later and he doesn't know _why_.

He sits there, curled up in a ball against the wall, eyes wide and fixed on the blond man who is not Thor but who is not yet hurting him. He tries not to blink, even when his eyes start to burn.

Rogers' mouth moves and words are slipping out. It takes him a moment to decipher them. "I'm not going to hurt you" they say, and surely they are lies but what is the point?

"What did they _do_ to you?" he says, but it's rhetorical because Loki can see in his eyes that he knows.

He doesn't understand Rogers' concern. They aren't friends. Aren't shield companions. They're enemies so why does it matter what happened? Why does it matter what the dark one, Fury, and Father chose to do with him to punish him?

"Why... does it... _matter_?" Loki manages to choke out, green eyes narrow and sharp as broken glass. He deals with the punishments he's given—he's good at that. There's no reason to help him.

"Why does it matter? You were—I wouldn't let that happen to _Redskull_ ," the super soldier bites out.

Loki blinks and his eyes slip down to the blankets. He plays with the hem with fingers too thin and too pale from lack of food and exercise.

Is Rogers not here to punish him?

He's too tired for this and he can't relax. Can't remember the last time he slept without utter exhaustion to smooth its path. But that's a lie, of course. Only it feels like it happened to someone else. Some other Loki before the coronation and the fall.

He stays there, arm and side throbbing, staring absently at the purple bruising. It's almost artwork. He wishes Rogers would go and not stare at him like a rancid blob of meat but he knows it won't make a difference if he says so.

There's a creak as the chair shifts, and he flinches involuntarily, eyes shooting upwards. Pathetic, really, being cowed by humans. And fitting.

Rogers has risen.

"If you want anything, just call. You're safe now," he says, choking a little on that last part, and then he's gone, the door sliding shut behind him.

Loki feels a flicker of disbelief. No one ever leaves just because he wants them to.

But he's alone again in the little room, and there's a window through which he can actually see. There are no mirrors.

Little by little he begins to straighten out. He hurts. He allows himself to feel it now that he is alone. Skilled fingers probe his ribs. They are out of alignment and he'll need to shift them back in place if he wants them to heal properly. In battle this is something he's done many times before. This time will be no different. There's a shift which pinches a nerve, sending raw fire rippling through every muscle and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out but at last it's right again. Twenty three to go.

He faints before he moves beyond the eleventh.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony's listening to music, volume on max, testing out a new laser when the door slides open. He spins around in his chair.

"Pepper I was-," he stops abruptly as his gaze meets that of Steve.

"Tony he's awake."

Tony frowns at the tone. And at the 'Tony' but there's a part of him that's saying _, Captain America is calling me by name_ , which makes him suddenly warm.

"Hasn't tried to blow you up or strangle you, has he?"

"No," Steve admits, "I almost wish he had, in a way. He looked at me like-," Steve breaks off. His gaze is haunted.

"No offense, Cap," Tony says bluntly, "but it took me-," he cuts himself off because Afghanistan's the last thing he wants to talk about with Steve, "It takes people a bit to trust after they've had what he had happen. We're his _enemies_. Do villains even have friends? If I can't think of an objective reason we sprung a supervillain as insane as he is from prison, he probably can't. No good ones, anyway," Tony amends.

Steve slumps and sits down.

Tony feels for him. He does. Half the time in his missions, the undramatic, not-saving-America-type, like when he killed the gang hunting refugees in Afghanistan, he looks at the faces and thinks "and what the hell do they do next?". He tells himself they're better off than they were—that that's all he can do—but he remembers their faces sometimes and _wonders_.

"I just feel...," Steve struggles to put it into words, "I mean, I know I didn't do it. But I was with SHIELD. Am with them. And it's disgusting."

Tony nods. Steve gathers himself.

"I should have known and I should have stopped it."

The words are bare. Tony rises and pours himself a drink.

"Tall order," he says, taking a gulp of the amber liquid and enjoying the way it burns all the way down, "Why should we have known? It's not like we had a reason to hack security."

Steve looks pale.

"You didn't see the way he looked at me. He was _scared,_ Tony. Scared of what I'd do, and scared I'd be exactly as bad as SHIELD."

Tony takes another fortifying sip of the scotch.

"So? All it means is he doesn't trust us and has every reason to believe we hate him. Can't help that you're probably twice as strong as him. And honestly, when I think of Coulson even I want to punch him. Not saying I would, not now, but you know? I'd be more worried if he did trust us on sight. I'd wonder what he was up to."

The blond soldier doesn't look entirely reassured.

"I'm staying until he heals," he says.

Tony shrugs and nods. Honestly, he's grateful he's not being dumped with this on his own. It's just that it's hard to find the right words to say so.

He turns back to his laser, and when he looks back up Steve is gone.

"Jarvis, alert me when our reposing guest wakes, would you? And tell Pepper I want bandages, plaster and no blabbing to any of SHIELD's boys. Girls. Whatever."

OoOoOoOoO

When Loki wakes he hears a knock on the door. It comes once, then twice and finally it occurs to him that they are waiting for him to let them in.

"Go away," he calls.

"Sleeping Beauty rouseth from her slumber," Stark's voice echoes through the doorway, "I have plaster for the arm. And breakfast. Coffee. That's got to count for something, right?"

The tone is oddly hopeful. And there's something disarming about it. Maybe it's that without the suit he can throw Stark out the window or choke him or do _something_ aside from scream and laugh and _beg_ if... he doesn't want to think about it.

"Fine," he calls, summoning pride to drape him like a cloak and wishing he looked more intimidating than he probably does in the Iron Man pyjamas he's been dressed in.

He doesn't get out of bed but he does prop himself up against the pillow.

The door slides open and Stark enters gracelessly, stumbling on the carpet and only just maintaining his balance. A dribble of coffee splatters over his wrist and he swears colourfully in a language which might or might not be Russian. Loki is unable to withhold the chuckle he disguises as a cough. He stops quickly enough though. The movement hurts his face.

Stark glares at him half heartedly, but it's hard to be properly intimidated by the short little man who has _food_. He can smell it from here. He's gone without food before. Months at a time even when Thor was absent and Odin displeased, but he still feels the hunger. Just cannot die from it. And a bowl of thin porridge he'd been all too often unable to swallow isn't enough.

The tray is set down on the edge of the bed it holds a strange food. A large, pale circle indented by dark brown squares and swimming in rich, sticky sweetness. The coffee turns out to be a blackish bitter brew. He eyes it doubtfully.

"You know, if you don't want it..." Stark says, reaching for a quarter of the circle.

The motivation is enough.

Loki snatches the plate away with his good arm, ignoring the ache and eying the cocky genius through narrowed eyes.

The mortal has the audacity to grin. Loki looks downwards and selects a slice. It tastes... good. Surprisingly good. He has to fight the impulse to wedge the whole lot inside his mouth, feeling suddenly more ravenous than he has in weeks. The coffee is better after he adds eight cubes of sugar to it.

"You can't top the American waffle," Stark says with a fond sigh.

Loki mentally scans through the plainer, more wholesome Asgardian fare of fruits and roast meats and honeyed-everything. He can't disagree so he says nothing.

"You are still here," he observes after a moment or two, and suddenly he wonders if the food was some sort of trap and curses his stupidity in swallowing it without checking.

Something of his panic must show because the mortal is raising a defensive hand suddenly and scooting backwards a little.

"Hey, don't go nuts on me," he says, "I just want to plaster the arm. Couldn't think of a proper conversation jump."

Loki doesn't unbend.

"My arm will heal on its own," he says dismissively. All the other breaks did.

"I don't even want to know how you know that," comes the swift return, "but plaster hurts less. And it won't warp the limb."

_Won't warp the limb? Hurts less? Why do you even care?_

"And come on, you can always just rip it off when it gets better anyway," Stark wheedles.

"And if I say no?"

"You put up with my pushing and Cap giving you mournful looks until you're healed," comes the ready reply.

He considers his options and finds only a vague confusion that his enemies care enough to push him at all. Thor obviously doesn't. If he had he would have _come_ when—. But no. He burned that bridge himself and it's stupid to whine like a child now because it's gone.

He jerks himself out of his abstractions and reluctantly inclines his head, a gesture of defeat.

Stark raises his fist in a victory gesture.

He forces himself not to shrink back when the little mortal approaches because he can deal with him. Not a threat. But his heart rate accelerates and he's aware there's probably not much he can do against the mortal's technology if...

"You good to set the arm? Seemed fine with the ribs," Tony explains, "Because I'd be pleased, honestly, if we could avoid calling in a doctor. The less chance we have of SHIELD finding out about this, the better."

Loki wonders for the first time if he was kidnapped rather than transferred.

He nods, more of a jerk than anything else. Hope flickers, faint as city stars.

"Like your PJs?" the human grins.

Tension doesn't fade, precisely, because he's twisting his arm into place with a chest-full of broken ribs and it hurts like it had when Thor had stuck Mjolnir on his chest. But it gives him something else to focus on. It reminds him of Tyr, in a way. Gruff, battle-hardened Tyr who didn't care enough about anything but war to feel jealous of Thor or Loki or Baldur and who gruffly talked about Thor's idiocy and pig-headedness whenever his older brother—not-brother Loki supposed—needed to be cheered up when being patched up after a battle.

"Your choice, I assume?" Loki retorts, only it's more of a groan.

"Hey, it's not my fault they were all that we could find in your size."

"All? I find that," he gasps as his arm slides into alignment, "find that hard to believe with your realm's predilection for mass-produced commodities."

"Who says 'predilection' rather than preference or taste?"

"There's an obvious answer to that which I'm sure you'll find if you think hard enough."

And then the plaster and the soothing, wet coldness is against his arm.

"You know, I'm not sure I'm flattered by that," Tony says, wrapping the white strands somewhat sloppily around the stiff arm.

Loki fights the urge to flinch away as the calloused fingers brush against him.

"You should be. I gave you the credit of assuming you would realise eventually."

Stark's lips twitch.

"Still not a compliment," he says.

And then he's done and is stepping away from the bed.

"Ribs good?" he asks, picking up the remnants of the plaster and putting them on the tray.

"Yes," Loki lies.

The man doesn't look convinced but he shrugs.

"Door's unlocked if you feel like getting up. Jarvis'll give you directions if you get lost."

The door opens automatically for him and clicks shut behind him. Loki is torn between wanting to rise and test the boundaries of what he can and cannot do and lying here for the next four hours trying not to shift a rapidly stiffening plaster mould while twitching the rest of his ribs back into place.

He eventually opts for the latter.

Half an hour later the door creaks open again, just as the last rib slides into place. It's Rogers. He's armed this time with a hefty box of something wedged firmly under his arm.

"Chess," the captain explains when Loki forces an eyebrow to twitch upwards.

"Chess?"

"Chess," the captain confirms, "Stark said he thought strategy was more your thing than just sitting here making awkward conversation."

Loki feels wrong footed somehow. It seems so surreal, so unbelievable, to think the men who caught him in Germany and watched him try to blow up their world are playing chess with him as though he's someone who matters.

But there's still that _look_ in the man's eyes. The one which says he'll take it like a kicked puppy if Loki knocks his offer back. He waits a second more, just to see what will happen. Rogers, predictably, starts apologising. It's so much like Thor Loki feels vaguely touched.

"I will play black," Loki says.

He's rewarded by a wide smile and suddenly, suddenly Rogers doesn't look quite so intimidating as he did.


	4. Frienemyship

If Loki were to be honest with himself, he half expects Rogers to become annoyed and stop playing after he loses the first game. But Rogers just grins and challenges him to a rematch. It's... odd. And yet strangely pleasant. He could, he thinks, get used to this.

He certainly intends to try.

"Check," he says.

It's game three and he has a queen and a castle and Rogers just has a king. It's entertaining watching Rogers try to dodge him and he catches himself smiling whenever the little king gets backed one square closer to checkmate. Rogers is surprisingly good at this—no one ever took so many of his pieces back home.

The king shifts one row closer to the edge. It will be over in two moves.

"Checkmate," he says.

He likes winning.

Rogers groans. But he flicks over his little white piece.

"You're good," he says, and he _means_ it.

Loki's grateful for the purple, puffy mask which is his face. It hides the sudden flush he's too weak to fight down.

"I am," he agrees, and grins at the supersoldier's half-hearted glare. Or tries, anyway. It comes out more as a grimace.

"Are you alright?"

"... Yes?" he tries, and then relents. He blames those achingly familiar blue eyes. "Truth be told, I am sore. But I will heal."

Even if he does not understand why they're helping him do so.

He's considered this from almost every angle and he's useless without his magic. Completely and utterly useless. Especially when everyone knows he's a mass-murdering master manipulator. There is no work for him to do. No magical problems they need sorted. Nothing. And he knows from Asgard uselessness is a dangerous state to occupy. He supposes he should be suspicious— Paranoid, even— but he can't summon up the energy just yet. Not when they actually seem to care about him and are holding out the promise of rising above the nothingness SHIELD thrust him into. Later. _Later_ he'll worry about motivations. Not now.

"Another?" he asks tentatively.

Rogers grins.

"This time you're going down."

He loses the next game within twenty minutes.

"Applesauce."

This time Loki does manage to get out a snicker.

Afterwards, before he leaves, the supersoldier pulls out a pen.

"Would you like me to sign the plaster?"

"Sign the plaster?" Loki echoes blankly.

"Yes. You know, 'hope you get well soon' and 'thinking of you'. That sort of thing. I could," his eyes light up, "paint a picture?"

Loki wonders if he's fully sane.

"... or not."

"Why?" Loki produces.

"It's just something we do here. On earth, I mean. At least in America."

Just because then. He can deal with 'just because'.

"Very well, Captain," he says.

He spends the next hour chewing on a bowl of Cheerios the mortal was kind enough to fetch him while Rogers spreads green and brown and yellow splotches all up his plaster-clad arm. He signs the thing 'best wishes for your recovery, Captain America'. Loki decides he likes watching the man when he isn't busy eyeing him with that guilty look which says "I feel sorry for you because you're as bruised as a rotten apple".

Stark pops in later and insists on signing the thing too, only he signs it about three or four times—something about filling in for missing friends. Loki hasn't the courage to tell them that, pitiful as it is, they're it.

Later that evening, when they've gone to bed, he traces the messages with one finger. There's a strange warmth inside him in a place which has been hollow for far too long.

OoOoOoOoO

The morning sunlight spills through the window past the curtain, bathing the room in soft, yellow warmth. It might have lit up the room but there's already a lamp next to the bed; dim and shaded but on. Steve had left it there, muttering something about finding the bathroom at night and tripping.

Loki leaves it on all night. Illogical though it is, the light soothes him. Keeps the shadows at bay.

At some point he must have slept, because the pigeons are hooting outside and for a disoriented moment he doesn't know where he is. There's only the brightness and the hurting. And then he _remembers_ and he can breathe again.

He opens his pyjama top to examine the morass of swollen flesh and purple bruises which is his stomach and chest. They hurt when he touches them, but they hurt less than they did. There's some dotted yellow intermingled with the purple now.

It's good.

His ribs have knitted a little now too. They no longer send agony lancing through him when he shifts. He wonders if he has Laufey or Odin to thank for his fast healing. The monstrous heritage or the golden apples? He decides he doesn't care. He hates both of them equally. Only that's not quite true. Laufey has —had— his quiet detestation and contempt. Odin, on the other hand...

A sudden knocking jerks him out of his abstractions and he tugs up the duvet over his bare waist before he registers who it is.

It's Stark bringing food again.

He starts doing up the buttons, though it's frustratingly slow with just one hand.

He wants him to go away. He also wants the waffles. Choices, choices. But that's silly. He doesn't even know that's what the mortal is bringing. It might be porridge, or more of that thin, disgusting gruel.

Plan A, remaining silent and pretending _not_ to be awake, is reluctantly abandoned.

"...what is for breakfast?" he calls.

"Waffles and coffee, Loki, waffles and coffee. It's the Stark staple, though I could rustle up a burnt omelet and toast if you got desperate for a change."

It _is_ waffles. But he is Loki. He does what he wants. He will not be constrained, not even by the demands of his stomach.

"I'm not hungry."

It's a pathetic lie. He is and he wants the food. But more, he wants to know how far he can press. Whether or not he has a _choice_. Whether they care enough to _make_ him eat. He fights the urge to laugh, because there is no logic to these conflicting thoughts and if he can't understand why he's doing this then who is left? Perhaps he is mad.

"... You sure?" the disembodied voice queries.

"Yes," he lies.

"Because, you know, these will probably end up in the trash can if you don't eat them."

The trash can. Manipulation. It's blatant and crude, and as objectionable as Thor's bad temper. The _trash_ can.

He opens his mouth to say so, and then another thought registers.

Stark isn't entering. The realisation is slow, like a very old candle fighting to burn against the damp. He won't enter because Loki hasn't let him in. He's rambling something about rats and dogs who really don't deserve such food and, oddly, something about children in Africa. He's trying to persuade. Not force.

Tyr would have pragmatically shrugged and left. Baldur wouldn't have come at all. Thor would have brushed the doors aside by now and started practically force feeding him. No one ever tries words. Loki finds himself swallowing his scathing insults back down and he isn't sure why.

"Fine. Bring it in. I'll eat it," he says.

He glares at the mortal for the rest of the meal because it's easier to be annoyed than face the little part of him that insists on being oddly touched. Stark, talking about weather, supermodels and Greece, doesn't seem to notice. Loki uncharitably decides it's because he's so fond of his own voice he probably babbles on for hours about nothing to no one anyway.

Before he leaves, the mortal insists on signing the cast again.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll send Stark away without letting him in.

OoOoOoOoO

That day, Tony decides, marks the start of a somethingship. Friendship? Close. Frienemyship? Better. But arguably not a word.

Their prickly, green-eyed guest still likes them to knock on the door at least twice before entering and if he's feeling especially bitchy he'll send them away even then. Tony thinks he likes the power of saying yes and no again. He knew _he_ had.

Tony also works out that he'll open the door for Cheerios and Waffles (and Steve) but not for toast or soup. Not that the latter occurs very often—only on days when Pepper brings them over and tells him he should eat more healthily. He works out the demigod likes Pears Soap, but won't touch _any_ of the citrus hand washes. He won't let them touch him to take his measurements either, but that's fine because he apparently knows them without checking.

Tony pretends not to notice the way the suits or green-silk pyjamas hang off the thin frame at the start. It won't help and the demigod's filling out rapidly enough so that in a couple of weeks they _will_ fit.

It's dinnertime on day four when Loki leaves his room.

Steve's made the mistake of asking Tony what he's working on and he's just launched into what promises to be a dinner-long monologue about thrusters and stabilisers when he hears, from behind him, a smooth, snide voice ask:

"Don't you _ever_ tire of the sound of your own voice?"

Tony jerks around because is it even safe for Loki to be up yet? And then he notices it, or rather the absence of it.

"Your cast's gone," he says.

"You're up," Steve says from next to him.

"Indeed. I did warn you my arm would not take long to heal."

"Yeah, but seriously? There's four days and there's soon. I was thinking more like a couple of _weeks_."

Loki looks vaguely flattered.

His face is not swollen anymore and if it's pale and waxy, well, Tony's the last person to throw stones about looking like shit after torture.

"You should sit down," Steve says, rising and pulling out a chair.

"I'm not an invalid," their green-eyed guest objects, more amused than offended if that thin smile is anything to go by.

"But you would like some pasta and sauce, right? Miss Potts brought it over. She cooked it herself and it's better than cheeseburgers."

"It is not," Tony objects.

Steve's lips twitch.

"Should I tell Miss Potts that?"

Tony sulks, poking a fork at him, "Alright, it's, it's _up there_ , with the cheeseburger."

Loki makes his way over to the seat and sits down.

"I shall try some of this 'pasta and sauce'," he announces.

"Way to go, tiger. Plates are in the left cupboard on the middle shelf."

"You would not obtain one for me?" the demigod asks, pasting on a deliberately pathetic look.

Tony shovels in another mouthful of the dinner and says around it:

"Who was it who said he wasn't an invalid?"

Loki redirects the appealing look towards Steve.

The supersoldier, Tony realises three seconds later, may have an incredibly advanced metabolism and may be way stronger than the average strongman, but when it comes to resisting manipulation he's disgustingly bottom class.

He rises and fetches the now smiling trickster a bowl and a fork.

"Softie," Tony quips as said man moves past and plonks them down in front of their guest.

"Just because some people are gentlemen..." Loki says, ladling himself out a generous helping of the meal.

Steve looks pleased.

Tony rolls his eyes. Honestly, some people.

That evening, after they've dumped everything inside the dishwasher, Loki turns to go upstairs again. Tony blames the vaguely wistful look on that overly expressive face for his next words.

"Do you want to watch a movie with us?"

"Movie?"

"You know, colourful series of moving pictures generally depicting a not-totally-unbelievable narrative?"

"I see," he says, but a telling crease in his forehead betrays him.

"Well?"

Loki's eyes flick between him and Steve and whatever he sees there prompts him to say:

"Very well."

Tony lets Steve pick because he's not sure if porn and blood are totally their thing. That and well, while he'd like to watch classic kids movies, dignity prevents him from picking them.

Sure enough, Steve goes with the cartoons and they settle down to enjoy "Beauty and the Beast". It's actually... strange, in a way, to see the green eyes so conflictingly blank and yet totally absorbed. No insanity. No guarded wariness. Just the occasional snicker at some of Gaston's more obnoxious lines. Odd too to see _Captain America_ laughing at Cogsworth and Lumiere.

They're yawning by the end of it, but after it's over, when Steve has said it was very touching and well done and Tony's still humming snatches of verse, Loki says he is glad the beast's beastliness was just a curse. That Belle showed remarkable fortitude for falling in love with a monster.

That's all but it sends warning bells rattling inside Tony's skull and he files it away for later consideration.

OoOoOoOoO

They get a call from SHIELD a couple of days later saying that a 'dangerous prisoner' has escaped custody, and they can tell from Fury's face he's suspicious but Hill says the records are clear and the prisoner escaped two days after their visit. Tony sends Hill a box of chocolates she's probably too healthy to eat. But hey, it's the thought that counts, right?

They spend a week searching for magical signatures with someone called Dr Strange but Loki hasn't used any and so they don't find any. Strange concludes the demigod realm-hopped. Fury talks again about getting ready but it's somehow a whole lot less convincing than before.


	5. Star Wars, Investigations and Steve

It's hard to say whose fault it is that there is another movie night the next evening. And the evenings after that. Personally, Tony blames Steve. This is mainly because it's the supersoldier who suggests first Monsters Inc, then Toy Story and him who has to point out it's important to see Star Wars (the real three) before the movie can make proper sense.

It's a success. Loki even enjoys Monsters Inc, though he says Sulley and Waternoose are as bad as Thor and Odin and, in a moment of candour, Randall as bad as himself. And when Tony laughs at "Everyone goes to _lunch_ " the trickster laughs with him.

By the third night it's become something of a tradition—enough so that Tony actually programs Jarvis to prepare the popcorn by eight and makes sure he doesn't leave the new laser half-on when he ducks upstairs for dinner. He even stops getting drunk for them. Sometimes.

The first thing he tells them before sticking in Star Wars is that it is a movie. Just in case the real actors throw them.

"Movies did exist in the 40's," Steve responds drily.

"I'm not an idiot. I know it's fake," is Loki's ungrateful answer.

And so he's not really prepared for Loki to go rigid at "No, Luke. I am your father." Sure, it sucks to find out Vader's your dad, but Luke's life has sucked in a lot of ways before this. And though they've had heated debates about whether or not Ben could have saved Owen and Beru if he'd been there, no one has actually _overreacted_ to anything. Reacted yes. But not like this.

"You alright?" he murmurs.

He has to say it again before he gets a response, and then it's only a quick glance and a nod that's more a jerk than anything else. But there are so many emotions swirling in those green depths. Anger. Envy. Pain. There are more and he can't even begin to decipher them because he doesn't know a damn thing about why they're there.

They end up watching both Episodes, because no one wants to leave Han stuck in the carbonite.

Afterwards, Loki silently holds out his own tumbler when Tony pours himself a scotch. It's a bad precedent to drink away troubles, and he knows that better than most people. He pours it anyway. Stones and glass houses, and all that.

Two glasses later, he's feeling safe enough to remark, idly, that it's odd no one changed Luke's last name if they didn't want his dad finding him.

"Yes," Steve agrees, "And why didn't they leave him with a less obvious relative?"

"Maybe his father didn't care enough about him to look for him," Loki says, nursing his third glass of the rich liquid, "Maybe his father _left_ him."

The words are raw and bitter and everything in then screams abandonment complex. Tony suddenly remembers Thor saying his brother was adopted.

"You were adopted, weren't you?" and Tony's pleased that it's Steve who says it and not him, "Did you ever meet your real family?"

There's a long moment of silence, and he's thinking shit, shit, shit, because the green eyes are so very cold.

"Yes," Loki says at last. He swallows the rest of his glass in one gulp.

"Not... not fun?" the genius asks.

"Not especially."

Tony fills up his glass again. And his own.

They drop the subject and return to safer waters.

That night he racks his brain to think of movies where adopted children were remotely happy. Stewart Little? The Blind Side? Lilo and Stitch? Does that even count?

He wonders just how bad Loki's real family was. Whether he hurt them. Whether they hurt him.

He shouldn't be thinking about this. He shouldn't. He should focus on the things he can control, not things which probably happened however many centuries ago and which are none of his business anyway.

It's a long time before he gets to sleep that night.

OoOoOoOoO

When Loki trots down for breakfast the next morning, Stark isn't there. Just Rogers who has, spread before him, an empty bowl, three rolls, a platter of waffles and a bottle of water.

"Your appetite is admirable. All you need is roast boar and mead and you'd fit right into Asgard," Loki says, pulling out a plate of his own.

He wants waffles. He can smell them from here and the original plan of Cheerios-with-milk simply isn't appetising by comparison. He doesn't ask for the captain's; it's undignified to beg and anyway Stark told him yesterday to just put the pre-mixed batter inside the metallic contraption and flick the 'on' switch. Apparently the thing is automated.

Rogers sighs.

"It's the serum. It increases my metabolism. I'm hungry all the time now."

"Essence of Volstaag," Loki says with a quick grin. The captain doesn't look like he gets the joke.

He opens the fridge and brushes aside an assortment of old soups and older mounds of fuzzy green somethings which might once have been food. The batter is on the top shelf of course, in the open, and he glares at it when he finally spots it.

"You know," the captain says, "If you want some of these ones..."

"I'm perfectly capable of preparing my own food," he says dismissively.

He doesn't need the mortal's pity, or his scraps.

"Where is Stark?" he asks, turning the subject.

"He said something about having a date with Hill about SHIELD," the captain replies.

"Oh?"

He tries to ignore the way his treacherous, weak body starts shaking. Doesn't risk looking at Rogers. He needs to focus. Unscrewing the lid of the batter mixture, he pours some into the waffle-iron.

They aren't going to hand him back over to Fury. They have no motive. He's been so careful about not giving them a motive.

"He said he wanted to see if Fury was... That is to say, if it was only you or other decisions."

"Only me," he echoes.

"I mean, if it's other decisions too, we'd like to know about them. And we'd like to know how many other people know about them. It's just... mistreatment of war prisoners is something soldiers get fired for because their superiors 'didn't know'. We need more than that if we want to get him into rehab or replaced."

"Replace him? You want to demote Fury over his treatment of me?"

He's looking at the captain now, searching for any sign of dishonesty in those determined, guileless blue eyes.

"Yes. Being honest, I don't like serving people I can't trust and I can't trust a commander who'd order or condone what he did to you."

He's clenching his fingers on the handle of the steel contraption cooking his breakfast, and he's distantly aware the extra pressure is making it burn. It's... this is something which is supposed to happen after months of quiet manipulation. They aren't supposed to do this so soon because they're not supposed to care. No one cares what happens to him unless they're Thor. And Thor only rescues him. He never prevents it from happening again.

"But... it was fair. My sentence," he protests weakly, not quite certain why, "It's the price I paid for murdering your kind."

Rogers has that strange look on his face. The one he wore when Loki first woke which he's starting to suspect might be horrified pity.

"You actually _believe_ that?"

He can't hold that searing gaze. The floor is so much easier to face.

"Yes. No. Does it _matter_? The Allfather is just. The Queen always said there was a purpose to everything he did."

The words are bare.

They are the doubts which have followed him through the months. Years. Emotions swinging like a pendulum between hatred for _allowing_ everything and desperation for some shred of forgiveness, some promise that he can return to his not-family in his not-home and have everything like it was before he realised he was a monster. Back when he'd thought there was a way he would eventually _find_ which could make things okay.

"Your _father_ knew about this?"

Loki turns his attention to the burning waffle and methodically unhooks the cooker, scraping out the blackened thing which he has produced.

"I thought... I assumed you were aware of his involvement."

"We knew he'd handed you over to Fury. We didn't know he knew about-," _what Fury did to you_.

"Oh," and his voice is suddenly very small.

"He just _let_ it happen?" the mortal persists.

"He made the collar. And he has Heimdall. The ravens. He knew. Knows."

"That's-," Rogers breaks off. His chair creaks and shifts on the floorboards.

Loki fights the urge to turn and finishes scraping out the metal contraption. He can't get all the bits out. Can't seem to do anything right today.

"Is that why you haven't asked us to take the collar off?"

He's closer now. Loki does turn then—he puts the iron in the dish-washer. The captain is barely a couple of meters away and he has to remind himself that he's not trapped. This is a friend. Or not an enemy, anyway. One who is wearing blue socks with red stars.

"Would you have done so? Truly? I am a murderer and a liar and a _monster_. Would you give me the means to harm you? To destroy your world again? I did not ask because there is only one sane answer to the question."

Rogers stands his ground.

"You aren't a monster, Loki."

He doesn't argue with the liar and murderer part. Or disagree about the collar.

Loki feels an insane urge to laugh because of course the soldier doesn't know. He doesn't even know if Thor knows the truth yet so of course Rogers doesn't know.

"I _am_ a monster. Do you know what I am? I am not Aesir. Not even human. I am a frost giant. A _Jotun._ My father left me to die because I was a worthless _runt_ and I wasn't any more pleasing to the Allfather when he adopted me."

He can't seem stop the words from spewing out.

"Do you know what it is to be truly despised? To know when others lie—know that whenever people talk to you they are wishing they were talking so somebody else or even no one? To know when you aid your brothers they will say that your best efforts are mere trickery because your strongest weapon is magic? To be ordered to _know your place_ and to be _silent_ whenever you speak out of turn when others are listened to and encouraged? Asgard knew I was a monster long before I did."

He's panting now and he's aware he probably looks deranged.

"So do _not_ tell me I am no monster, for I am one. First by blood, then by choice."

He's shaking and he _doesn't know why_. All he wants is to slip past Rogers and crawl underneath his duvet for a year or two and not have to face anything like his not-Father and SHIELD again.

The socks are approaching.

"I can't say I do, no. But I wasn't like this, before the serum. I remember when I applied for the army—I wanted to defend the home, you know? They knocked me back. I had the same qualifications as a ninety-year-old. But then I wasn't alone. I had-," he breaks off and Loki risks glancing up. The blue eyes are clouded with remembered pain.

"So no, I don't know what it's like to be 'truly despised'. But I know what it's like to be pitied because all I was wasn't enough for anything."

"In a way I kind of admire you. Tony said once, when we first met, that everything I was came out of a bottle. To be fair, I'd implied he wasn't much without the suit. But it's true. If it weren't for the serum I'd be a ninety-pound weakling with asthma. And dead from old age, but that's beside the point. You managed to overcome your weaknesses. I can't say I appreciated the use to which you put your strength, but it is there. And for a poor fighter you have a mean swing."

They stay there for a while, staring in silence which is strangely not awkward.

Then Rogers stretches out a hand slowly and rests it on his upper arm. It's light enough so that he could probably break free is he wanted to, so while he stills he doesn't try to jerk away. It's... nice.

"You're not a monster. You're just... Darth Vader," he produces.

It's so ridiculous that Loki snorts. But he can feel his tension easing. If he cannot yet accept that he isn't a monster he can at least accept that he isn't to the captain.

Looking back, it's then that Rogers becomes Steve.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony can't say he's enjoying his lunch, especially.

For a start, both he and Hill are in disguise, which in her case means a wig, a dress and a lot of thick make up and in his means a cheap suit and dark sunglasses.

Secondly, the food is late, cold and expensive. He puts up with it though, because Hill chose the dingy little club and according to her no one here is particularly interested in anyone else's business. He's brought a certain nondescript suitcase anyway, just in case.

He makes small talk over the wine, which has almost definitely been watered down. She's tense. He knows the signs. A certain care when discussing things which don't matter. A tightness about the eyes.

"So," he says once the meal's arrived, wrestling with a gristly steak, "I guess what I'm asking is, does Fury's new attitude go deeper? And is he doing to anyone else anywhere else what he did to you-know-who?"

"Define deeper, Stark."

"Honestly? Decisions which endanger agents. Careless mistakes. Other people being tortured the way 67 was. Weapons, like the Mark II, in enemy hands. _Latveria_ on the shipments lists."

And okay, those last two are a little pointed.

She's silent for a moment.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Stark. My loyalty is with SHIELD," she says.

He wants to ask her why the hell she agreed to meet him here, but he's always been smart and though he rarely employs it he does have a brain-to-mouth filter.

"I'm sorry, Tony," she says, and then she's rising to go and she's holding a hand out for him to shake, "Take care of the check will you?"

"Sure, sure," he says impatiently, shaking her hand.

Behind the shades his eyes widen as something small and cold slips into his palm. Then she's gone, heels clicking and peroxide blond hair bouncing as she makes her way through the crowd. Straight face. Keep a straight face, he tells himself as he watches her leave, but he's smiling a little as he slips the data-stick into his pocket.

He tips the club two hundred before he leaves.

_Fury, just what are you hiding?_


	6. Waiting

Loki ends up sharing the captain's waffles, largely because there don't seem to be any spare waffle irons. They spend a passable morning discussing Star Wars because movies are all they really have in common without risking the pit traps they don't know each other well enough to avoid. Steve seems to pick up on that about twenty minutes after him.

They've finished breakfast now, and Loki's leaning back in his chair trying not to think about Stark and SHIELD and feeling full. The supersoldier is chewing on an apple. That's when the captain decides to cross into more dangerous territory.

"Have you ever tried reading the paper or watching the news?"

"I'm afraid understanding Midgardian culture wasn't my top priority during the period on Midgard I was free."

"No. I don't suppose it was," Steve frowns, and it belatedly occurs to Loki that that subject probably isn't a laughing matter.

Pit trap number one.

"Though if I were interested in the news, I do not think I would read the paper. If I recall correctly, Barton mentioned computers were the main way one kept track of information in this realm?"

"Clint _..._ oh. Yes, that's right, I suppose."

Pit trap number two. Unforgivably careless of him, to bring up the fact he'd mind-dominated one of the captain's friends. It seems his tongue has truly turned to lead today. This conversation has, too clearly, descended into stilted awkwardness. Loki abandons it in favour of staring off absently at nothing.

"Loki?"

Unlike Steve, who apparently intends to plough onwards anyway.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you do it? Invade us? Kill Coulson?"

And not just fail to sidestep the pitfalls but actively leap _into_ them.

"Coulson?" he stalls.

"Thor said he was threatening you with a rather large gun," the soldier supplies helpfully, and now Loki remembers him, vaguely.

He wonders whether, if he remains silent, the mortal will abandon his line of questioning.

"Why?"

Apparently not.

"I...," _he was in the way. I didn't know what the gun did. He challenged my conviction. He was defending Thor._

He suspects of them all the last, and by extension the first, are true. And since he is a monster why should he _care_ if he sounds like one?

Only, Steve doesn't yet think he is.

"Loki?"

He supposes the captain deserves the truth. Or as close a version to it as he is prepared to give. He tries not to sound much of anything when he replies.

"I invaded your world because I _needed_ the tesseract. My allies were... not kind. Nor, when one crosses him, is the Allfather. Handing over the tesseract, the lost jewel of Asgard's treasury, to the Chitauri... I knew I would need somewhere safe when my act was discovered, and barring Thor's banishment we hadn't visited here for over a thousand years. It was the logical place to take, for the tesseract was already here. I... no one looked for me during the years after I... and I didn't think the Allfather cared enough about me to _bother_ anymore. I didn't think he _knew_ yet. And then Thor came, demanding that I just drop it all and return home because Asgard mourned. _Mourned_. If anyone had _asked_ Heimdall they would have known I was alive. I just wanted to hurt him after that, I think. Coulson was just someone else in the way."

His voice is still flat and emotionless when he finishes and he's absurdly proud of the fact. He manages to force himself to look up at the captain at the end.

No excuses. No justification. No mention of those endless weeks of falling and falling to nothing. ' _No Loki'_. No mention of his broken, battered waking on frozen Jotenheim, or the hastily woven lies, all that stood between him and a torturous death _. Fear_. No mention of his capture by the Chitauri as he practiced world-walking. _Helpless. Pain. Screaming_. Let the mortal judge him as he will. He refuses to care.

The captain looks oddly pale. Or perhaps it is not so odd. The queen used to pale whenever she was especially disgusted by anything.

"Nothing personal then."

"Only with Thor," Loki agrees.

He wishes he hadn't answered now.

"Loki?"

He doesn't say anything this time.

"I'm not going to pretend I think what you did was okay. But you know, for the record, just because your actions—killing Coulson, demanding we kneel, making Clint try to kill us—disgust me doesn't mean _you_ do."

"You...w _hy_ not?"

_What am I but the sum of every mistake I've ever made?_

"Because you don't."

That answer is Thorishly obscure. Loki says so.

Steve shrugs.

"If I was going to be disgusted by _you_ , I'd have to be disgusted by half the Avengers. It's not really my place to say, but none of us have stellar pasts. I'd have to be disgusted by _me_ too. I was just a performing monkey who couldn't even save the man who transformed me from a 90lb weakling into _this_. I smashed an entire bar to pieces when I couldn't drink away Bucky's death. So no, I'm not disgusted by you. What you choose to do with your strength, maybe. But not _you_."

"But-,"

"And besides," the captain persists, "I can't hate someone who agrees with me that Han Solo acts a bit like Tony."

Meaningless. The words are meaningless. And yet... A lifetime of argr whispered behind his back and he is comforted by _this_. He gets up from the table then and begins putting the dishes away in the dishwasher. The cereal away in the cupboard. Anything to distract him from the slight tingling in his eyes.

If Steve notices, he's kind enough to pretend not to.

OoOoOoOoO

Home or Pepper.

That's the question, of course, and Tony finds himself considering it when Happy asks where he would like to be dropped off.

On the one hand, home has better security. On the other hand, Pepper is Pepper. And if the sort of information on the stick is anything other than video footage or photos, there's no one he'd trust more to help him trawl through it. Especially if it's economics. It probably _will_ be economics.

Pepper it is.

"Stark Industries," he says.

And if he's lucky he'll be able to change into a better suit while he's waiting for her. One which _doesn't_ stink of the club and stale wine from where the waiter slipped up filling his glass.

He is lucky. According to Susan, the current secretary, Pepper is apparently at a conference and, not only that, keeps a whole closet of spare suits in there for him. Rolling up drunk one too many times has its perks, it seems.

He changes into a dark grey suit which isn't scratchy and doesn't smell of cheap perfume and stale tobacco smoke. Or at least, he decides he'll tell himself it was tobacco the spaced out trio in the corner were smoking.

Then he sits down and waits for Pepper. And waits. And waits.

There's a _reason_ he never used to attend those interminable meetings when he could avoid it. At some point he pulls out his StarkPhone and entertains himself looking himself up on Google. It's amazing, really, how many gossip columnists don't seem to think he's in love with Pepper.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki suggests playing chess in the lounge room in the afternoon for two reasons. The one he offers is that it is a pleasant occupation and Steve doesn't have any emergencies to be in anyway, does he? The more honest reason, of course, is that strategically Stark must pass this room to go to either his bedroom or his workshop. And he fully intends to waylay him when he does.

In the interim, the game will do to pass the time.

Two hours later he is restless. It's almost dinner now, so why isn't the mortal back yet? He excuses himself abruptly from the fourth game and rises, pacing back and forth. And for all he reminds himself of a caged wildcat he cannot bring himself to stop.

"You look tense."

He shoots an impatient look at the captain.

"How observant of you."

"Tony will be fine, you know. He would have called us by now if anything was wrong."

"Called _you_ , perhaps. And I am _not_ worrying about Stark."

Steve's lips quirk upwards.

"I'm _not_. I am mildly concerned as to his present whereabouts. It is an entirely different thing to worrying."

"I never said you were," the soldier says, "I just said he's probably fine."

Probably. _Probably._

"Besides," the man continues, "he has the suit."

Loki knows he is right. There are too many logical reasons for SHIELD _not_ to attack Stark for the possibility to become reality.

And yet he continues his restless movements.

How can he say that he is concerned about himself? That his care is purely selfish and not noble to the least degree? That he wonders if Hill is a traitor? He's never met her so he _doesn't know_. What if they suspect he is here and use Stark to find him? What if they arrest him and take him _back_? His Aesir sentence may be served but he doubts the mortals will care for that. He know far too little about this entire situation and it bothers him more than he can describe. As the mortals say, 'knowledge is power' and he has always hated being powerless.

 _Mirrors. Brightness. Fear. Pain_.

Steve is talking and he cannot bring himself to care what the soldier is saying.

_"Frost giant."_

The word jerks him out of his abstractions like being doused with cold mead.

"What?"

The captain flushes apologetically.

"Sorry about that. You looked like you were having a panic attack."

"Oh _really_? And saying 'frost giant' helped, did it?"

"Well, it got your attention. Repeated 'are you okay's didn't seem to be working."

And now it's his turn to flush.

"Oh."

There are a few moments of silence and it occurs to him that he must look rather silly just standing there doing nothing.

"Are you okay?" Steve says. Repeats, probably.

To lie or not to lie.

"Yes," he says flatly, and continues to pace.

"You know, having flashbacks isn't something to be ashamed of," the supersoldier hazards, with uncanny insight, "It's a side effect of experiencing trauma. Most people wouldn't even be up yet if they'd been through what you'd been through."

"I am not _most people_."

He isn't even a _person_.

"I'm just saying it's not something you need to run from. I've seen soldiers fall apart trying to bottle everything inside, trying to pretend they were fine."

"You think I am falling apart, do you?" he demands, suddenly angry.

It's irrational and pathetic and _what if he is?_

"I'm just saying you aren't alone. If you want to talk about anything, I'll listen."

It is so ludicrous that he laughs, sharp and bitter.

"And you would know what it is to be helpless, of course. To know that it is your fault and that you are too _weak_ to change that which you most hate?"

Steve stiffens, and Loki shakes his head derisively. But then the mortal is speaking.

"I wasn't tortured, unless you count being beaten up in every back ally in Brooklyn. But being helpless? Flashbacks? I remember men dying when we were fighting HYDRA. It was... one moment they were yelling and running and then just... nothing. Not even dust or a body. Like they'd never even existed. And Bucky. He-," Steve breaks off and suddenly Loki half wishes he hadn't asked. The man's voice is under control, flat, when the he finally finishes. "I... he was hanging there and I couldn't reach. I was stretching out and he was so scared. The rail broke. And he fell."

Somehow Loki is aware he is seated back on the couch, feeling surprisingly... small.

_I fell._

"I'm sorry," he offers.

"It isn't your fault."

And he knows that. He does. But there is plenty which _is_.

Part of him wants to reassure the captain like the mortal had him that morning. Wonders if placing a hand on his shoulder would help. But he was the enemy who almost toppled the world, not a friend. More deeply, there is a part of him which feels sick at the idea of seeking out contact. And so he stays on his seat and just tries to _look_ sympathetic.

He doesn't know if it helps or not, but the haunted look on the soldier's face fades after a few minutes anyway.

"It's fine," the man says, "I had Peggy to talk me through my breakdown."

"... Peggy?"

"A girl I met in the army. Decked a fellow for disrespect when I first met her. I would have married her, I think, if I hadn't been buried in the ice."

Loki is silent.

Steve looks _small_ again. He doesn't know what to say.

_I was married once. I tricked her into it for a joke, we didn't love each other and she left me._

How ... pathetic. A mockery of everything real. Like the rest of him, he supposes. He remains silent.

The captain squares his jaw and smiles firmly.

"But it's over now. She'd be the first person to tell me not to waste my life with regrets. Look I'm not trying to pressure you into anything. I guess all I'm saying is that I know from experience that sometimes it feels better letting it out."

Loki sighs.

"I will consider it. And... Steve? Thank you."

_For understanding. For not minding when I lash out. For not calling me weak. For telling me about Bucky and Peggy._

The mortal nods and offers him a quick smile. Then:

"Do you want to finish our game?"

"Yes."

OoOoOoOoO

Pepper is sitting next to him in an obscure office. Tony's got a laptop. One with a highly secure private server it would take him three hours and the rest of humanity three years to hack. He hopes.

The innocuous little stick, grey, mundane and labelled 'recipes', is plugged in and... shit. Just shit.

Latveria weapons shipments. And while the standard issue hand-guns might be planned, those Mark II prototypes and the warheads which just _happened_ to go missing en route around the same time an anonymous donor _happened_ to give a donation of almost exactly what they were worth... well, he doesn't believe in coincidences. And neither, going by the highlighted relevant information, does Hill. And it isn't only Latveria. Iraq. North Korea.

There are agents missing in action too, all older men and women.

And from the highlighted parts of their files, they were also all close friends of Fury.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

"Tony, just how differently has Fury been acting?" Pepper asks.

He's told her of course, about Loki. She hadn't been especially pleased ("He threw you out a window") but she hasn't told anyone so he's counted that a plus.

"Just like a more intense, creepy version of his normal self," he says. But he understands the underlying question.

"His eyes aren't blue, Pep."

She frowns.

"Contacts?"

"I'm pretty sure SHIELD is smart enough to spot a wearing-contacts blue-eyed Fury."

And he is _moderately_ certain of that. You don't need to be a genius to check for them.

"So what do you think, Pep? We got enough here to call him up?"

She wrinkles her nose thoughtfully.

"... It depends on whether or not SHIELD is licensed to trade with Latveria and Iraq. The stolen shipments are probably just circumstantial evidence," she says at last, "But Tony, I'm worried. What if they decide you're the next James Farris?" she points to a wrinkled baldie labelled 'deceased'.

"I'm Iron Man," he protests.

" _Tony_."

"I'll be careful."

She doesn't look entirely reassured. He wonders if that's Obie's fault. Or Loki's. Or Vanko's. Or his.

"I will," he repeats.

"I... alright Tony. But let me look into the legal agreements SHIELD has before you go ahead with this, won't you? We need to be sure."

"Alright," he says easily, "But what are the odds I could persuade you to do it at home instead of here?" he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

The odds, as it transpires, are high. Pepper accompanies him back that very night.


	7. Plots Within Plots and Meetings

When he finally gets home with Pepper, it's a little after nine.

It's the fault of the peak traffic combined with the decision ("I'm hungry, Pepper.") to stop in at Sam's Diner for an hour or two, a neat little place which cooks the best gristle-free roast in New York. They stay there longer than they probably should because they haven't had a proper date for over a week.

Tony does feel a twinge of guilt when they walk into the loungeroom and he sees the time though. Honestly, he hadn't intended to make Steve wait that long. Or, going by that tense, pale face, Loki. When they get a private moment he's going to have a word or two with the captain about secret keeping and the advantages thereof.

"You're back," Steve says, turning off the news and giving them a smile.

"No, I'm a ghost," Tony deadpans.

At least Loki grins. He decides to ham it up.

"The force will be with you, Loki. Always," he intones in his best Alec Guinness voice.

Loki opens his mouth, either for a return quote or to insult his accent. Tony never does find out because suddenly Pepper's stepped forwards, heels clicking, and he's thinking he probably should have remembered to tell her the infamous Asgardian was up and about.

" _You're_ Loki?" she says.

To be fair, the demigod perched stiffly on the edge of the couch looks dressed to go to college. He doesn't, in the grey t-shirt and dark slacks, look like a recently tortured and rescued supervillain. But maybe that's just the lack of rictus grins, wounds and leather.

"I am," he admits cautiously, "And you are?"

"Pepper Potts."

"Being fair, Loki, which other beautiful women would I bring home at this hour?"

"I can—,"

Tony can too.

"—you know, on second thoughts, don't answer that."

The demigod's grin is very wide, very white and very insincere.

"Very well Stark. Since you insist."

And then the smile vanishes. Pepper has left Tony's side and is bearing down on the unfortunate demigod with deadly intent.

To his credit he stands his ground. Or maybe not, Tony mentally amends, noting positions and performing some basic arithmetic. He'd have to leap the couch to get away. Trapped then.

"You _threw_ Tony out a _window_ ," Pepper says, pointing a finger at the towering Asgardian.

Loki blinks, eyes darting about for escape. And then he swallows, dropping his gaze to the carpet, apparently unable to meet her gaze.

"I did," he says, "I am most sorry for the act, Lady Pepper. I was... not myself at the time. It is not something I intend to repeat."

And suddenly, suddenly, Tony knows Loki must have gotten away with a hell of a lot more than he should have as a kid. He doesn't look like however many thousand years old he probably is. He doesn't even look thirty. And... are his eyes _watering_?

"I have nephews you know," Pepper says drily.

The jade eyes snap up to hers, wide.

"I'm sure they are charming beings if they are related to _you_ ," he offers.

Steve, still seated off to the side, lets out an undignified snort.

"The face is great. But Reindeer Games, you _need_ to work on your sincerity," Tony says.

A shadow of something like regret flits across Loki's face. It's gone so fast Tony can't be sure that it was ever there.

"You are right, of course. But really, Stark. _Reindeer games_? Are you not a little old for that sort of humour?"

"You're saying no one's ever called you on the horns? I mean, how are they even _practical_?"

Loki flushes.

"They are—were—enchanted not to encumber me. Intimidation, not defence, was their primary function," he says stiffly.

"Sure, sure. _Reindeer games_ ," Tony grins.

Loki huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

Pepper looks back and forth between them, brow furrowed. The demigod looks back at her after a moment or two.

"For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry," he offers.

She raises an eyebrow.

"I would be with SHIELD still if it were not for Stark. And Steve. I do not hurt my friends intentionally when... when I have them."

Tony finds himself wondering why he's still Stark if Steve's Steve.

But it seems to be enough for Pepper. And if she still looks a bit suspicious, there's a lot less hostility to it than before. She nods and returns to him with a muttered "Well, if you're _sure_ about this Tony..." which, since he is, is awesome.

It's always nice when Pepper supports his goals.

And her face is really quite pretty when she gets annoyed and flushes like that...

_Wait. Is that Loki talking?_

"What?"

"I _said_ 'was Hill informative'?"

His face is calm but his left hand is mangling his trouser leg. Tony wonders if he's even picked up that he's doing it.

"Yep. Very."

And then he decides to be a bastard, just because he can.

"So Steve, how was your day?"

Steve's day, apparently, consisted of chess, talking, eating, jogging and breaking another three punching bags. By the time he's finished saying so, well, if the flared nostrils and narrowed eyes of a certain demigod are anything to go by it'd be best, Tony thinks, not to pick a seat near the trickster when he eventually sits down.

"Sounds like it wasn't much fun," Tony says sympathetically when the supersoldier reaches the end of his litany.

"It might surprise you to learn just how many people _enjoy_ exercise and a relaxing day at home."

Tony shudders.

"March of the oddballs. And you don't even drink _coffee_."

"It's the serum. I can't get drunk either."

"You know, _fascinating_ as this is, would it be too much for you to save this until _after_ you tell me what you found out from Agent Hill?"

He blinks.

"You mean—,"

" _—Tony_ ," Pepper interjects.

"Alright, alright. The info," Tony says, pulling out the laptop from a suitcase.

Loki shoots the redhead a grateful look.

It's half past ten by the time they've finished trawling through the information.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki decides he doesn't dislike Miss Pepper Potts.

It's partly because she doesn't seem to mind him being dishonest and partly because she isn't trying to pretend she likes him. But mostly it's because when she makes Stark, Steve and herself some hot chocolate after they've finished examining the information, she makes him one too.

Grand gestures are common in all Asgard. Perhaps that is why he finds the little ones mean so much more to him.

They are all four of them sitting around holding the warm and strangely pleasant drinks, and Stark is keeping well out of pranking distance. Pity. Not that it will help him. Loki fully intends to have his revenge eventually on the mortal's teasing.

But right now, the majority of his thought is devoted to the conundrum that is SHIELD.

"So what you're saying is Fury's been dealing with borderline enemies above the tables and open enemies bellow them?" Steve says.

"Someone certainly has been," Stark not-quite-agrees.

"Who else could it be?"

"Mystique for one, Cap. There aren't exactly a shortage of shape-shifters around."

" _Mystique_."

"Who is Mystique?" Loki asks.

"One of the X-men. Hot. Blue skin with a scaly pattern-look. She can wear forms like I wear clothes."

"You mortals find blue skin _attractive_?"

"Hell yeah. You seen Avatar? I have to show you Avatar. Some random guy in the news was saying he'd never _marry_ because there was a shortage of blue female giants around. Not that Mystique's a giant..."

Loki finds himself swallowing. Steve coughs sharply.

"But yeah, back on topic. Fury's old friends seem to be having lethally bad luck. Anyone else thinks that screams 'I'm not me?'"

Steve frowns thoughtfully.

"All his old friends, you say?"

"Well, a lot of them. Going by the files. The ones which aren't dead from old age."

"That's certainly suspicious... "

"... but I'm sensing a 'but' here, Cap?"

"Well, these things usually take months, years even, in the planning stages. And how long has this gone on for?"

"Three months," Potts says decisively.

"Exactly. It's moving too fast. Why?"

Tony shrugs.

"Does it matter? Obie was an overnight job. Maybe he just... snapped. Someone got too close, saw too much, and he decided to just wing it."

"Obie?"

"Fury."

"No, I meant, who's Obie," Steve clarifies.

"Ah," Stark rubs the back of his neck, "Short version? Friend of my Dad's who thought killing me would work in nice for his plans of running the company. Didn't work out that way. He died."

Loki doesn't miss the way Potts stretches out her hand and rests it on Stark's or the way he squeezes it back. But Barton had told him about this, he recalls. Something about a lying father figure, torture in a different province, and the arc reactor. He is less surprised than he should be to feel a feint vein of sympathy for the mortal.

"And what makes you think that Fury is not simply eliminating those less likely to agree with his methods and replacing them with less... moralistic agents?" he asks.

Steve at least looks thoughtful. Stark, not so much.

"Because he wasn't like this. He was like _Coulson_. Sure he'd endorse threatening to, and I quote, ' _taze me and watch "Supernanny" while I drool into the carpet_.' But actual torture? Like he 'deserves everything he's getting' actual torture? No information, no purpose but revenge? Way I see it, Fury doesn't suck that badly."

"He _said_ that?" Potts gasps.

"Day we rescued him."

 _I will destroy him. And I will make him pray for death before the end. No,_ beg _for it._

"Loki?" Steve says, tentative.

There's a sharp pain in his palms and he suddenly realises there are bloody half-circles there where his nails have dug into his flesh. He straightens his fingers out slowly, forcing the tension—the hatred—back down. He needs to think. Needs to stay focused.

"I am fine."

Surprisingly, it's Stark who seems to see through the lie. But the man doesn't comment. He merely throws a sceptical look in his direction.

"So you think somewhere between Loki being defeated and, well, now, Fury got replaced?" Steve says.

"Well, it _fits_."

But does it?

This entire brand of logic is too... smooth. Too easy. It is like being herded towards an unseen pen, with no clear way to go but onwards. Running and running, but in the wrong direction and with no escape.

"What's his motive though?" the supersoldier frowns, "Why now?"

"Whoever's replacing him had to know that he was close friends with Coulson. Hell, probably with a couple odd hundred of the people who died. It'd be a neat enough excuse, mental strain, to slip in a missed shipment here, a missing agent there. Gets them their weapons, no questions asked. Maybe more than that with time."

Loki takes a sip of his drink, fingers clenching about the cup.

"Convenience then," he remarks lightly, "But who performed the replacement?"

"Dunno," Stark shrugs, "Doom? HYDRA? Terrorists? Could be any of 'em. Not really our problem. We just want fake-Fury out and real-Fury in if he's, you know, not dead."

"And if he is?" Loki asks, feeling... something.

"A good replacement. Hill, most likely. Or if not, someone else the council trusts."

_Someone else the council trusts._

"So what we need to do," Steve says, "is get some more proof of what Fury is doing. Get him arrested. And get SHIELD back to being controlled by a decent director."

"Something like that," Tony agrees.

_Something like that._

_Something like that._

And suddenly the events click into place.

"Is it not fortunate that I happened to be being tortured so badly as I was. If not, no one would ever have thought of investigating and replacing your director," Loki says blandly.

Three sets of eyes snap toward his face.

"Loki...?"

He doesn't care which of them said it.

"It is exactly as you said, Captain. They moved to fast. Far too fast. One never moves that fast when one wants to succeed. So... why?"

His eyes are glittering as he stares at each of them in turn.

"Perhaps I should say, as you do, idiocy and carelessness are to blame. But I do not. I say Fury is terribly, terribly shrewd. There was no motive for what they did to me. No questions asked. Nothing better than petty revenge in any of your scenarios."

"Loki, I don't think—,"

"—exactly. You do _not_ think. I do. I have fought wars before alongside my—I used to be able to shift forms as easily as your Mystique. And one does not make so obvious an error unless one _wants_ to be discovered."

Everyone is silent.

"The real question is not, 'How shall we replace Fury?' but ' _Who wants Fury replaced_?'."

"Come on. Fury would never say—,"

"You are not thinking clearly. You are not _listening_. Whoever is behind this wants to replace Fury because they do not have access to what he has. Information. Codes. Research. Possibly all of that. But they needed none of that to replace Fury for the one, vital meeting required to make 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' suspicious. _That_ one. You said as much yourself when you implied he was strained but normal until then. And afterwards."

Tony whistles.

"Picture the enemy. They see, as you saw, an opportunity to imply Fury was compromised by this 'Coulson''s death. By the invasion. They start to torture me. I am the key because someone, soon, will care enough find me, but no one cares _now_. They arrange weapons shipments to countries which are associated with those orginisations most aligned against your own. Agents go missing. Never enough to be caught or arouse notice, but more than enough to confirm active suspicion. Until finally they are ready and you find out about SHIELD weapons in the hands of terrorists. And by extension my pathetic, useless self."

Steve looks like he'd like to interject but Loki does not give him the chance.

"SHIELD security, I imagine, is moderately decent. When you arrive, things are prepared and I am allowed to be rescued. To quote Leia, 'They let us go.' Free, I would tell you my story. About the Allfather sentencing me to be handed over to the humans, powerless and bound, for however long it took me to escape them. About Fury. Everything. You would blithely trot off and have him arrested. And whoever has groomed themselves to replace him as active controller of the most highly guarded source of knowledge and the most powerful team of superheroes in the world would take his place. And no one would ever, ever, know. Not until it was far too late. Tell me, does that sound more plausible than a panicking puppet shape-shifter with no plan whatsoever other than stealing bombs?"

"Shit. Shit _fu—,"_

"Tony!"

Stark, reluctantly, subsides.

"No offense Loki," Steve frowns, to the side, "but if that is true, why the devil didn't Fury stop them from doing _that_ to you?"

Loki's stomach clenches.

He ignores it, meeting, holding the supersoldier's gaze.

"There are two alternatives. Option one. I do not _matter_. I am a pawn. At the start he did not help me because I was a factor he was aware of and if I were to be rescued by him they would replace me with an unknown variable. Later, possibly, because if Fury were to admit he knew about my torture, there would be questions asked and he would be told to step down, however temporarily, while they sorted it out. He would lose whatever game it is he is playing. Option number two. I do matter. He doesn't know and simply ordered my incarceration in cell number 'X' until he needed me, and left me there to think on my wrongs. Quite possibly, in that scenario, whoever impersonated Fury for your meeting also impersonated me on the occasions Fury hypothetically visited me. Either way, my rescue most probably did not please him."

"He could have _told_ someone," Steve says.

"I imagine he did. Hill. But—,"

"—but given how many agents have kicked the bucket, how many more can he trust?" Stark says hollowly.

Loki nods.

"In your director's position, I would have left me to rot and hoped I found the traitor before anyone with a conscience found out about the torture. Possibly, if pressured, I would have given myself an apology afterwards. And after all, whoever visited _me_ could probably be linked fairly safely to the traitors, and I imagine the traitor is someone moderately high up. Useful information versus protecting a mass murderer."

Steve looks sick. So do Stark and, surprisingly, Potts.

Loki feels vaguely touched.

Finally Stark says:

"So what the hell do we do next?"

"We out-think them."


	8. Insomnia, Bonding and Ice-cream

They end up skipping the movie that night. Eleven thirty is too late to start anything, and Loki slinks off upstairs with a muttered "I am tired" before Tony can suggest watching one anyway. Even if it weren't too late it feels wrong, somehow, starting one without all of them there. So they finish their drinks, head off to bed and think about SHIELD and the plan. Or at least, he does.

The plan Loki's outlined is sketchy at best, and though it's phrased a little more elegantly and specifically it boils down to 'find out who will be the new director without being caught and then worry about the details'.

"Because I cannot plan a good strategy without knowledge, Stark," the demigod had said.

Tony finds it hard to drift off that night. Pepper is sleeping beside him, making a sound which is not quite snoring. More like a soft snuffling. It isn't enough to disturb him most nights, but tonight his brain is in hyperactive mode and the combination kind of shoots rest to pieces.

He's thinking, if he analyses it, about torture and Loki and Afghanistan and SHIELD. About making contacts and calls and looking things up. About things which can go wrong. Being wrong.

About too much, frankly. Maybe this is why the bad guys in the movies always look like they suffer from insomnia. Winging it is so much _easier_.

Unfortunately, the death toll is also a lot _higher_.

He lies there for all of three hours before he gives up on sleep. It's another twenty minutes before he can make himself crawl out from underneath the cosy bedding into the cold night air. Pepper mumbles "s'nt clause sv'n" and rolls over, and for a moment he freezes even though the floors are covered by thick carpet and nothing ever creaks.

But then she's snuffling again and he lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He waits a few more moments anyway before padding over to the sliding door.

"Jarvis, get that for me would you? And don't disturb Pepper," he murmurs.

Jarvis doesn't reply, but two seconds later the doors open with a quiet hiss. The hallway beyond is windowless and dark. It doesn't matter. He's practically a walking flashlight now anyway.

He doesn't even need to think about it as he heads downstairs to the workshop. Sleepless nights are less common now than they were after Afghanistan and Obie but they occur often enough for him to leave the heating on in the room each night. He's a billionaire with sustainable energy reserves. It's not like he can't afford the waste. And frankly, if he has to stay awake, he might as well stay awake being _useful_.

It's then that he sees the lights flickering in the loungeroom. His first instinct is to suit up. His second is to mentally thwack himself. He shares the house with three people. It's probably just Steve getting a snack or something.

"Who's up, Jarvis?"

"Loki, Sir."

_Loki?_

"Huh," he says intelligently, and enters the room.

Loki, when he enters the room, is curled up on the sofa in a position which makes Tony wince and think cramp. He has an open tub of peppermint chocolate chip ice-cream at one elbow, a spoon in his left fist, and appears to be engrossed in staring absently at nothing.

"Trouble sleeping?"

The demigod shrugs in a way that says ' _I'm here, aren't I?'_.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, Stark. They're just dreams."

But at least Loki's looking at him now, even if there's something bruised about the heavy eyes.

"You know, people say sometimes that it helps to talk about the stuff bothering you," he says, shelving plans for three separate lasers and heading for a chair.

"Oh? And does it?"

"Yes. Maybe?" he offers weakly, "Honestly? I can't say I've really tried it. I go more for the ' _if I ignore it it'll go_ ' sort of philosophy. I tend to just let things slide..."

Okay, so he can definitely cross off 'supportive listener' of the list of his qualifications. Nosy listener, on the other hand...

Loki takes another spoonful of the ice-cream straight from the box. Tony would worry more about hygiene if it didn't look like the Asgardian was going to have finished the thing in an hour or so anyway.

"But, you know, I kind of remember, sometimes. They're not buried. More... submerged. And they get me sometimes when I don't want them too. Sometimes wonder if they wouldn't if I talked about them."

"Memories of when you got your arc reactor?"

Tony stiffens.

"Yeah. That and... other things. How'd you know?"

"Barton may have mentioned it...," Loki admits.

Right. SHIELD assassin with access to all the files. Sucked to be him. Or anyone with dirty secrets. Wait...

"Speaking of Clint, think we could use him for the plan?"

There's a moment of silence which Tony assumes is Loki assimilating the abrupt topic change.

"You think he would help _me_?"

"Kind of. Hypothetically. SHIELD maybe. But what if he _would_?"

Loki frowns thoughtfully.

"Certainly both he and Romanoff know the workings of SHIELD more intimately then we can hope to without months of undercover work. If there are any obvious enemies, the girl at least may know of them. If you can get their help we may save weeks trying to identify the person behind all this."

"And then we out-think them?"

"We do," Loki agrees.

"Any chance of you telling me _how_?"

"At the moment, the plan involves identifying the individual we want eliminated. And not letting them know we are trying to do so, which is, perhaps, harder."

_So no then._

"So contact Tasha and Clint. And hope they kind of _don't_ put two and two together regarding you."

"Ideally yes. Realistically, no. You would do well, I think, to be honest with them. Unless you are very sure your deceptions will not fail, you will gain more through the pretence of unsolicited honesty. A gesture of good faith. I recognise enough of myself in them to be sure that being tricked will rankle."

Loki pauses for another scoop of his snack.

"You mean like Tasha tricked you on the Helicarrier?"

One dark eyebrow rises elegantly, but the demigod doesn't dignify the comment with a reply. After a moment or two of pointed silence Loki shrugs and adds:

"Moreso with Barton, because being tricked into aiding those who have hurt you by those whom you trust is not something to be forgiven lightly. But certainly if you think they can be persuaded we should make the effort. In fact... if you still have footage of my sentence it might as well be used, seeing as it is there."

"Torture, not sentence. And you're kidding, right?"

"Why would I be?"

And now that he looks, the demigod does appear to be genuinely confused.

"Well," Tony scrambles his brain, "We don't... I mean, isn't that a little, I don't know, personal?" _Like flashbacks, questions and reliving everything?_

"That is the _point_. Why should they forgive me until they are content that I have suffered sufficiently?"

"That's... sick."

"Sick now," Loki says carelessly, waving his spoon for emphasis, "But truly, sick the day after several hundred of your humans were crushed beneath my heel? Sick when I wanted a drink at wasn't sorry in the slightest? I am not remorseful Stark. I never have been. I can regret that I failed. I can regret that I hurt you and Steve, because you, for reasons beyond my comprehension, have helped me. Because you are my friends. But truly? I don't feel remorse. Half the time I do not even think about the consequences of what I do. I feel only a delight in the chaos itself. It isn't... I have tried for so _long_ to get the right emotions. I always fail eventually."

There's something raw and aching in the voice. And then it's shut off, replaced by a vague distaste.

Loki is staring somewhere at the carpet now, instead of his face.

"I am aware I am deficient. I used to think everyone had the same problems. I didn't understand why when Thor or Baldur said they were sorry they were sent to bed without supper and when said I wasn't I was whipped. The Allfather always said we were to be honest you see. _Rewarded_ it even. I learned first to lie, then to lie _better._ "

He looks, Tony thinks, like he expects to be kicked.

"Your parents _whipped_ you?"

"I, yes. Yes but that's not the point. The poi-,"

"-How old were you?"

"Really Stark? Does it—oh very well. I must have been, the first time, what, seventy?"

"Seventy? That's... what's that in human years? How _tall_ were you?"

Loki shoots him a dark look.

"C'mon, spill."

"Fine. I was around eight. And I would have been almost waist high to Thor."

"What'd you do?"

"That has very little bearing on our current plans. It was tens of centuries ago and it doesn't _matter_. You should confine your energy to the present and let _me_ worry about my past."

Tony gives him his best puppy eyes. Loki visibly wavers.

"I know for a _fact_ Tasha has a soft spot for abused kids."

"I was _not_ abused."

"What'd you do that deserved it then? At eight."

It takes another five minutes for the Asgardian to cave.

"If you must know, I forged the Allfather's signature and signed away a third of our provinces in Alfheim to the Svartalfheim ambassador. I used magic; it could not be undone without causing a diplomatic incident."

"That's... but _why_?"

"The dark elven ambassador was kind. One Farion Dalmer. The Allfather hadn't remembered my birthday again and Dalmer gave me a spellbook from their archives to mark the occasion. He approached me later with the scheme and I was annoyed enough to think the payback was fair."

"Heh. That's kind of cool in a don't-let-me-forget-your-birthday sort of way. I was still failing to earn my old man's attention building engines and getting degrees right up till he died on me."

Loki stares at him for a moment, head tilted a little to one side.

"Hmm. I found it less 'cool' when my back was in shreds and the court was laughing at me. But they had reason. As I was informed, I displaced well over a hundred Asgardians from their homes as well as giving the dark-elves a foothold for anything from spying to murder. It was not, I think, my most benign deed."

And why was it all too easy to imagine a too-smart, too-emotional mini-Loki, trotting around with way too much freedom and far too little open affection? To imagine this 'Dalmer' manipulating a kid, a little, angry _kid,_ to get him his political foothold. And, apparently, dropping him as soon as he'd used him. Because there'd been no mention of any 'can we just cancel the treaty' or comfort afterwards. Just... and his family had let him get persuaded into _that_ , made a spectacle of his punishment, and laughed at him?

_Eight. And they wonder why your emotions are screwed._

He doesn't know how to put it into words. He settles for a lame:

"No kidding. So when's you're birthday?"

"Oh for Bor's sake Stark, does it matter? Does any of this matter? My birthday is the ninth of November. Or at least, that's when I celebrate it because I don't actually _know_. Are you content? Can we return to our actual business?"

_Ah. That whole adoption thing._

The demigod looks livid. Tony decides to drop it.

"Sure. Sure. The business being...?" he trails off hopefully.

Loki groans and downs another spoonful of the melting mass at his elbow, possibly for fortification.

"Persuading Romanoff to help us."

"And Clint."

"If you can get him. If I were he I would not forgive easily. He _is_ an excellent shot though."

"Seriously? That's like saying the Hulk's got a temper."

"True. Or that _you_ are irritating."

Tony grins at that one.

Then he pulls out his phone. Joys of the modern world.

"What are you doing?"

"Texting Tasha. Figure chances are she'll get up way before I wake up. Ever used a phone?"

"No. Magic negates—negated—the need for such mundane objects."

Loki has uncurled from his ball now and is leaning towards him, watching. Tony grins as he taps away. The demigod's still wearing the Iron Man PJ's.

_You free tomorrow afternoon sometime to meet up? My place? T.S_

And, sent.

"... How does one use a phone?"

" _You_ want to use a mobile phone?"

"I do."

Tony stares at him for a moment longer than he probably should. But really, if Loki, gazillion-year-old sorcerer, wants to learn how to use a mobile, why the hell not?

"Alright, scoot over."

OoOoOoOoO

When Steve comes downstairs for his morning spar, he grins. On the couch are two figures, very much asleep. Loki is curled up into a ball and Stark is sprawled across the rest of the couch, arms hanging off the side. They're both snoring. There's an empty ice cream carton on the floor.

He seats himself on the opposite chair and pulls out his sketchpad.

And on the phone, an unread text says:

_10:00 pm. N.R_


	9. The Best Laid Plans of Gods and Men

10:00 pm arrives faster than Tony thinks is fair.

Maybe it's because he wakes around twelve, so there isn't all that much of the day left to wait through. Maybe it's because, a couple of texts later, Clint's coming over too, which is great in that it saves time explaining things twice, but is less great in that Loki groans and says they'll have to revise their original plan of having him there from the start and break it to the agents gently instead.

"Because I am aiming for more in life than becoming a pincushion."

Tony would defend Clint but, well, it's probably fair.

And so it is decided that Loki will wait in one of the side rooms with Pepper while he and Steve do the honours explanation-wise.

It's a good plan.

They set up a spare study for the job, and drag in a spare couch from downstairs just to make sure they've got enough couches for everyone to sit on a different one if things get a little tense. Tony is privately surprised when Loki helps Steve carry the thing upstairs—it's shockingly easy to forget that the scrawny Asgardian went one on one with the captain without magic once.

Especially when said Asgardian is wearing a Captain America 'Who Can? We Can!' T-shirt over shapeless grey pants and... Hulk-smash socks?

"What are you _wearing_?"

Loki stiffens, an impressive feat while walking backwards through a hallway with a sixty-odd kilogram leather couch.

"I am wearing a natively garish outfit, consisting of a T-shirt, pants and socks. And also-,"

"-Way too much information buddy."

"Well, you did ask," the demigod huffs.

"Yeah. I kind of more meant _why_?"

"I am dressed," Loki sends him a look which labels him nine kinds of stupid, "as a reformed individual who is no longer a threat to the world at large."

" _Hulk-smash_ socks?"

"It seemed a fitting tribute, given the nature of my defeat."

"I. That's so..."

"Weird?" Steve supplies helpfully.

"Weird," Tony latches onto the word.

"Harmlessly weird?" Loki suggests hopefully.

"Um. Yes. But, you know, mainly just really not you."

"Hmm. Well, let us hope your friends have the same reaction."

 _Where did he get them?_ he mouths at Steve.

"Pepper," Steve says succinctly.

Well, at least that explains why he probably isn't wearing an Iron-Man T-shirt.

"You are _blocking_ the hallway."

"Right. Sorry," he says, edging into an adjacent bathroom.

"It's fine," Steve says, over the top of a muttered jab at 'mortals'.

Ten minutes later the couch is in place and Loki sinks down on it with a weary sigh. Steve looks fine, but then Tony's always felt that there are too few physical tasks which bother the supersoldier.

"I think, Stark, that you should invest in larger elevators."

"You know, I _could_ have just flown it up. Or got out the automated lifter..."

Loki rouses himself to sit up, shooting Tony a glare two notches short of a death ray.

"But I thought it'd be mean to spoil your fun."

"I don't have the energy to strangle you Stark but when I do, Darth Vader's Needa will be _nothing_ compared to my _you_."

Tony grins and sits down next to him.

"Then you'd have to buy your own waffle iron. And earn your money."

"I'm sure there'd be _someone_ willing to reward me for the altruistic task of removing you from this realm."

"Still no waffle iron. That one's one of a kind. Stark Industries. No more like it and Jarvis will zap it if you strangle me."

"... I will copy your designs. And _then_ I will have my revenge."

"Sure, sure. If you make waffle irons like you plot world domination old age will get me before you do."

"I resent that."

"But I don't hear any denials."

Loki sends him another glare and flops his head back on the sofa, eyes half shut.

"You are an obnoxious, annoying buffoon."

"Compliments will get you nowhere, Robbie."

"... _what_ did you call me?"

"Robbie."

" _Robbie?"_

"You know, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer's son? Easier than Reindeer games."

Even Steve doesn't look like he gets it.

Tony sighs.

_Should've stuck with Rudolph._

They end up setting up the laptop on a coffee table in the centre of the room. Tony's backed everything up on a private server. Just in case. Not that he thinks Clint will shoot it or anything. More that someone might spill coffee. Or something harmless and mundane and _normal_ like that.

The black casing gleams in the electric light in a way Tony would call evil if he were in the habit of assigning emotions to inanimate objects. He's not, so he just labels it as depressing.

And it will get worse when he actually has to show their footage.

No. He isn't looking forward to ten pm.

And why is it that it's the deadlines he doesn't like which seem to come at him ten times faster than they should?

OoOoOoOoO

It's ten pm and Loki's safely ensconced in a side room down the other end of the corridor, reading on the iPad Tony gave him. Pepper's with him, Tony knows. She is still as wary of the demigod as he is of her, which leads to vaguely stilted conversations and long lapses of silence.

Unless she's doing paperwork and Loki's got a tablet, in which case there's just silence.

Tony and Steve are in the loungeroom waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Shockingly, it's Steve who speaks first.

"So, I gather you had trouble sleeping last night?"

"Yep."

"But the couch was more to your tastes?"

Tony groans.

"It wasn't my fault. I only put my head back for a few seconds and then it was twelve. Jarvis didn't wake me. Jarvis, why didn't you _wake_ me?"

"Miss Potts felt it would be unfair to disturb you, or your guest, sir."

"You were both sleeping very peacefully," Steve adds.

_Are you—_

"You're _grinning_."

Steve doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic.

"You sleep like a kid. And you hogged the couch. I think I'm entitled to find it cute."

" _Cute._ "

"Very."

"... Jarvis, show me the footage."

"Uploading now, sir."

He supposes they do look sort of sweet in a messy, undignified—

"I don't snore," he protests weakly.

Steve just _looks_ at him.

"I don't. Jarvis, delete that footage."

"Completing the task as I speak, sir."

"There. I don't."

"I suppose Loki was snoring loud enough for two."

" _Exactly_."

"And managing to do so at two different times."

"Yep."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"You're as bad as Howard."

And no, Tony isn't stiffening. He's just... straightening up.

"He snored?"

"Yes. Always denied it when he woke up though, even when me and, and Peggy—even when there weren't any motors around to blame he used to say we'd just dreamed it, or that it was thunder."

Tony snickers.

"Yep. That's dad. Always in denial about something."

"You remind me of him sometimes," Steve says.

"Oh?"

He hopes he sounds mildly curious, not defensive and cold.

"Decades ahead of modern science. Cocky. Irritating. Brave. Good friends."

And... he can deal with that.

"He looked for you, you know," Tony hears himself saying, "During your stint as a capsicle. Never stopped."

Steve shoots him a quick glance.

"Every year he wasn't in the workshop designing something he was out on the ice leading another expedition for you."

And if that happened to mean that Tony's care had been left to a never ending stream of nannies, well, there was no real reason to tell the Cap that. It was years ago now. He's turned out fine.

"I imagine you and your mother must have been close then."

"Um, yeah. She used to see me sometimes when she remembered, in the evenings after she got home from party functions. Used to sing to me and tell me stories when she wasn't too tired."

And okay, that does sound a lot lamer out loud than it did inside his head. But there's no need for Steve to shoot him that piercing look or thin his lips like that is there?

This conversation passed 'awkward' ten minutes ago. He searches blindly for a smooth topic change and manages to produce:

"But hey, I got lucky. Loki's dad makes mine look like parent of the year. Hell, parent of the _century_."

That kills the mood very effectively.

Steve subsides into frowning silence and Tony hums just to be annoying.

At length, the captain says:

"Do you... know what a 'frost giant' is?"

_What the hell?_

"The only giants I know about are the ones I killed as a kid in D&D. Why?"

"Loki. He said his real family were frost giants."

"Bit small isn't he? Aren't they like fifteen feet tall or something?"

"He's a runt. Apparently his real father left him to die because of it. Odin took him," Steve clarifies, sounding bleak, "He seems... that is to say, he called himself a monster. I wasn't sure why."

"Well there's an easy enough way to find out. Jarvis, Google 'frost giant'. And 'Loki' while you're at it would you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure it's polite to do that?"

"Hey, I've been meaning to do it for days. Way I figure, Clint seems to have told him enough about us to make the payback fair."

"I still don't know..."

"Come on Cap. There's Norse Mythology classes being taught everywhere. It isn't like we're nosing out secrets or anything. And we might be less likely to accidentally trigger him this way."

The captain sighs.

"Okay."

They're still being filled in on Jotuns "foremost enemies of the Asgardian gods", the horse, Baldur, needles and cross-dressing when Clint and Tasha roll up. Jarvis gives them advanced warning. Everything Loki-related has been shut down by the time the assassins get upstairs.

OoOoOoOoO

"Hey Tony," Clint says, giving him a manly punch to the upper arm and making a beeline for the liquor cabinet.

Tasha produces a terse, "Tony. Steve," and heads for the chairs.

Both the agents look like they've crawled through a bombshell blast and back. There's a gash on Clint's arm bound with a strip of torn cloth which looks like it was once someone's top or coat. Someone's very grimy top or coat. Even Tasha's form fitting garb looks trashed.

"Don't worry about getting dirt and blood on the couches. They're only brand new leather."

The archer grins, and makes his way over to them, glass in hand.

"I'll pretend that was genuine, Tony. I'm beat. Fucking terrorists with their fucking hostages."

"Long day?" Steve asks.

"You could say so."

"So, how does mundane anonymity compare to the glories of superheroing?"

"Let's just say I'd take normal any day," Clint says, and just for a moment there's something haunted in his voice. Then it's gone. "Nope, nailing terrorists has all the old appeal. Plus it's what I trained for. I've got better things to do than sign fucking autographs and press releases all day."

Steve looks surprisingly sympathetic.

"I take it the mission went well?"

"Yep."

"Thanks for the details, Clint. Made for a _fascinating_ story."

The archer snorts.

"SHIELD business, Tony," Tasha says unapologetically, "You can hack into the database if you are that interested."

He isn't. Still...

"Yeah you have a point there. SHIELD security's got more holes than dutch cheese _after_ the mice have been at it."

Clint snorts. Tasha frowns.

"Oh?" she says, and no, it absolutely does not surprise Tony that she would be the one concerned by this.

"Really. I broke into it about a week ago, actually. You know Mark II tesseract weapons were being sold off to _Doom_?"

The agents exchange unreadable glances.

"Not to mention the warheads disappearing off to North Korea..."

"The fuck they are. Who's in charge of that division?"

"Fury. And under him Kepple," Tasha says shortly, "Was this why you called us?"

"Kind of. That and... other things. Info's on a laptop upstairs. Whenever you're ready."

"Another assignment already," Clint groans, "Fury had better be paying overtime."

"Fury kind of doesn't know about this at all," Tony says.

Tasha raises an eyebrow at him.

"But if you're after being paid overtime, well buddy, one word for you. _Billionaire_."

"... Alright, Tony. I trust you. I'm not saying I'll do it, mind, but I'll listen. Just... give me ten minutes and a drink first will you?"

"Done."

Steve ahems.

"There is just one thing. We'd prefer... that is to say, this one's us, not SHIELD. We'd prefer it if you wouldn't talk about this with your superiors."

Tasha and Clint exchange unreadable glances.

"I suppose we can do that," Tasha says, reluctantly, "But only if it doesn't threaten national security. Don't make me regret doing this for you though, Tony."

With that she pulls of two bugs and switches off her cell phone. Clint does the same.

Tony breathes out, long and slow.

"Thanks," he says, and means it.

Two drinks and ten minutes later, they go upstairs.

It turns out that they don't need all four sofas in the room because the agents sit together and so do Tony and Steve. Tony decides he'll rub that in to Robbie, later. Now, though, Steve is rising and preparing himself to start talking, because they agreed that his words, as a mature, responsible war hero, will hold the most weight. Or at least, Loki and Pepper did and Tony was outvoted.

Only, before the captain can start, Clint says:

"Can I just ask, before we get into this, where is the bathroom?"

Way to break the mood.

"Just down the corridor to the left," Steve says, "Jarvis will direct you if you can't find it."

It's only ten minutes later, when he hears the smash, that Tony remembers that the bathroom is directly opposite Pepper.

And Loki.


	10. Painful Understandings

Loki has always enjoyed talking.

Thor hits things, Tyr doesn't care how they die so long as they do, and Baldur... Baldur went around being _nice_. And Loki talks. Talks his way into trouble and out of it, and half the fun of it is seeing how close he can dance to the knife's edge without being slit. Unfortunately, now is promising to be one of those times he should have remained silent.

Of course, it wasn't so much what he'd said.

He'd only asked why the mortals kept on burning oil if they thought it would warm the planet and kill everyone. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on there being someone in the hallway outside their room to hear him. More specifically, a certain former-minion-with-issues who doesn't look like he's been updated on anything important at all. Not unless holding a readied bow and scowling have suddenly become signs of mortal trust.

 _I will put green dye in your laundry for this Steve, if I live. I will paint bright pink serpents on your shield. What in_ Helheim _were you wasting your time discussing?_

He has risen of course. In fact, he has, with one jump, put an entire couch between himself and the armed assassin.

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?" Barton rasps.

A careless lift of one eyebrow.

"Reading on Stark's couch."

"The _fuck_ you are."

The archer is aiming at him now, and Loki narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders, daring him to do it. He has cover. The odds are in his favour that the mortal will miss. Barton opts for shrewdly circling around the couch instead. Loki keeps pace. His palms are sweating and he's suddenly, irrationally, angry.

He is _not_ nervous and he is _not_ frightened. He is _Loki_.

And then Potts says sharply, "Clint. Haven't you been filled in on anything?"

"Filled in? Like you and Stark fucking knew he was there? Just when were you planning on telling me you'd signed on Mr humans-are-ants-so-let's-squash-them onto our little job?"

Loki flushes slightly.

"I don't think you are all ants _anymore."_

"Steve was supposed to tell you an hour ago," Potts says tartly.

"Oh? We only got here round eleven. You know, out saving the whole fucking world from people like _him_."

Barton makes a heroic effort to get a clear line to Loki as he says this, springing over the couch which separates them. Unfortunately for the mortal, Loki is equally athletic under pressure and vaults it at the same time. Barton glares at him across the reinstated barrier.

Loki offers a lopsided grin.

"You should know by now that there _are_ no people like me."

"Still reusing the same old lines? Fucking lazy, that's what that is."

"Lazy is using the word 'fuck' for emphasis in every sentence you produce," Loki retorts, stung.

An arrow whistles past, dangerously close to his ear as he ducks down. It sticks into a chair behind him, quivering.

"Would you two _stop_ that? Clint, he's served his sentence. He's legally as innocent as you and me now. So stop trying to shoot him."

Her voice is rising dangerously and two spots of red are burning in her cheeks.

_Is Potts... worried for me?_

He shakes the thought aside. He needs to focus on Barton. Who is, he realises, speaking.

"The fuck he has. It's been _three months_. He shouldn't be released in his own fucking lifetime let alone _mine."_

"The Allfather's justice is beyond contestation."

"Yeah yeah. Daddy's little kid being let off with a rap over the knuckles. Well, we don't run that way here. You should have had the sense to stay the fuck away from earth for the next fifty years."

 _A rap over the knuckles_.

He does laugh then. A rasping thing, with no mirth and more than a little insanity.

"He is _not_ my father. And I'm afraid I didn't have that option."

"Oh? Because I thought your brother took you back to fucking Asgard with your fucking tesseract. So forgive me for thinking you had a fucking _choice_ about coming back here."

_He's not my brother._

"But then Thor's gullibility is as legendary as Volstagg's appetite. All you mortals are when it comes to illusionary images. You—he believed whatever the Allfather wanted him to believe and never bothered to _come_ when I-," _needed him. Where were you Thor?_

He's aware his taunting grin has devolved into a haunted grimace. He gathers the shreds of his composure together.

"Oafs, the lot of you. If I had my magic I'd be behind you with a dagger through your back while you were still saying 'fuck'."

He throws himself sideways as another arrow flies through the sofa's leather backing a mere two inches away from his nose.

"Loki, stop taunting Clint."

Loki spares Potts his ' _I don't think so'_ look.

"If I had a taser I would tase both of you."

"If you had a taser I would have stolen it hours ago and used it by now to fell Barton."

She glares at him before rounding on the archer.

"Clint, he never left. Tony decided to go on a rescue mission for him with Steve last week. He was in prison all that time."

Clint hesitates in the act of stringing his next arrow.

"Doesn't that mean he _didn't_ serve his sentence?"

"My sentence was having my magic bound and being handed over, injured and helpless, to SHIELD," Loki bites out, "What happened to me after that was purely my own fault. The result of my own deficiencies in diplomacy and strength. Whether the mortals released me the next day or decided to hack my head off made no difference to the fulfillment of the sentence."

"That's ...," Barton trails off, "So you could have been out in a day? After _everything_?"

Loki glares at him.

"Yes. And if I'd had my way I would have been."

"Seriously, your dad'd just accept you back after one day? After all the shit you pulled?"

"My 'dad', who need I remind you is _not_ , sentenced Thor to exile until he proved 'worthy' for travelling to Jotunheim, realm of the frost giants, and slaughtering hundreds of the monsters for calling him a princess. _Hundreds_. For one insult. Of course, they are less than insects and deserving of _nothing_ but contempt; the sort of monsters who lie and hurt and unmake you for fun. But the Allfather claims they are not, and they _are_ undeniably sentient. Three days, Barton. Three days with a pretty mortal and one noble death courtesy of myself. And all was forgiven, because he had fulfilled the sentence and was worthy."

"Monsters like you, you mean," the assassin remarks, ignoring the Thor parts of the little monologue.

"Monsters _exactly_ like me," Loki says with an ugly laugh.

Potts shoots him a complicated look he can't be bothered deciphering.

He focuses instead on dodging to the side as another missile flies past and winces as it digs into the coffee table.

"But no. Clean slate or no I _will not_ return to Asgard. It was bad enough living in Thor's shadow, fixing what felt like _every_ mistake he and Asgard _ever made_ when I stood beside them as an equal. Doing so as a mere _creature?_ As nothing but a _dog_ , happy enough to be whipped so long as I am able to subsist on their scraps? I refuse."

"Because I'm sure life as a fucking second Prince was _unbearable_."

Words, a thousand slights, a thousand incidents, stick in his throat.

_You know nothing of my life. Nothing._

He's being backed into a corner. There are just three chairs separating him from total loss of cover now. He's hunted enough times to know what it looks like to be the prey.

"Clint, he's served his sentence. You didn't see the footage of him when Tony rescued him. He threw Tony out a _window_ and I feel sorry for him."

"I don't _need_ your pity."

"You sure as fuck aren't getting mine."

Two chairs. He actually thinks he might like the archer if the mortal were not forcing him to flee like a demented goose.

"If you didn't like the Allfather's justice you should not have returned me to him."

"Yeah. Because your brother _wouldn't_ have fucking _smashed_ us if we'd tried to keep you."

"He's _not_ my brother. I am no one's son and I have no family."

One chair.

"Yeah? Keep telling yourself that. You don't fucking deserve him anyway."

In retrospect, that's where things start to go wrong.

Or at least, more wrong than they are.

Because there is no cover now, and he's backed into a corner and he _hates_ the feeling of being trapped.

"Don't move one more fucking inch."

Perhaps it is the window to his left; the cold glass and the reflections he can _feel_ behind the curtains. Perhaps it is the memory of helplessness. Of rough hands in glaring brightness. Of no way out and nothing that he can say to make it _stop_. Or perhaps it's that cold honesty. The bald statement of truth.

 _You don't fucking deserve him anyway_.

He doesn't know.

Only knows that something snaps.

Loki does move. Quite deliberately. He has survived the abuse of the cell. If he has lived through that, he can live through one more arrow before he strangles Barton. No matter what logic tells him are his odds of successfully doing so.

And then the arrow is released straight at his throat and he thinks it's odd because surely they can both see that it will be blocked by the iron collar? Surely Barton should have targeted the chest?

The force of the blow knocks him back half a pace and he stumbles back into shelf behind him with an undignified "oof". A vase topples and shatters and the carpet is wet; covered in glass and water and slimy lily stems.

There's one moment, where he hears Barton say:

"That was a warning, and it's the _only_ one you'll get."

One moment where he feels the newly-dented collar growing warm and feels like borrowing the phrase 'shit' from Stark's vocabulary.

Because of course the Allfather warded it. Of course Loki would not just be allowed to damage it with Stark's lasers or with potent acids. Or with arrows. Of _course_ not.

He's just not that lucky.

He has one precious moment more. Possibly he should have used it to damn Barton to Helheim and all the torments dear Hela could conceive. Or at _least_ tried to choke him. Instead he just stares at the man like an idiot, eyes wide with gathering pain.

And then he's falling and falling into the sharp dampness and he's shaking and his throat is burning and it's like the emptiness of the void and the fires of Muspelheim have joined forces to consume him. He wants to scream and scream until the world ends but his throat isn't _working_ and he wants Thor and why won't Thor _come_?

He's clawing at his throat and he needs the pain to stop and _why aren't his arms working?_

Someone's saying 'fuck, fuck, fuck," and someone else is barking out "get back" and "you'll be okay" and he doesn't know _why_.

Doesn't know anything. His world has shrunk, collapsed in on itself to leave just the heart which threatens to break with each painful thud and the white agony that claws its way through each nerve like Chitauri venom.

There's a mewling noise, like a beaten dog, and he doesn't care enough to give a _damn_ that it's coming from him.

There's nothing now but this.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony makes eye contact with Steve for all of two seconds as the crash echoes through the room.

Then the supersoldier's up and running and _out_ by the time Tony's up and saying 'shit'.

"Tony?" Tasha says sharply.

He's half way over to the doorway now.

"Tony, you're not suiting up. What is it?"

She's keeping pace beside him with all the ease of a trained athlete beside an out of shape has-been. Which is a really bad parallel, now he thinks about it, because he's perfectly fit and even exercises. Sometimes. When he's not busy designing things.

"You know that whole search for #67?" he waits for her brief nod before saying, "Loki. Believe it or not, we didn't know 'till he was out. There wasn't enough of him beneath the red and purple to recognise. Beatings. Assault. Broken bones... you name it, they did it. We were going to break the news that he was with us to you a bit more gently, but I think... yeah."

Tasha's lips thin.

"I see."

"He said, Loki, that we should be upfront because you were in a position to either screw things up or help out and you probably wouldn't want to be blindsided into helping him. Not that it really... I mean, I don't think Clint could really have found out much less smoothly. Or you."

Tasha starts running in earnest then and Tony? Tony just tries to keep up and ends up entering the room a full thirty seconds behind her.

By the time he does, the scene is in full swing.

Arrows quiver from both the sofas, three coffee tables and four of the five chairs.

He's mean enough to consider making Clint pay for the replacements.

Pepper's standing there, pale, her lips thinned in a way which suggests they're going to have a very long talk about the advisability of carrying tasers in the near future. Clint's next to Tasha, saying something in an undertone about "shooting" and "insane" and "not my fault."

And then his eyes are drawn straight down to the shaking demigod curled inwards on the ground near the window, eyes rolled up to the whites and doing his deranged best to tear his own throat out under the collar. He's whimpering and his fingers are curled into jagged claws and Tony's just glad it's Steve who's holding his straining arms back and not him.

" _Shit_. What the hell did you _do_ to him?"

And okay, Barton got brainwashed and forced to shoot his friends by Loki, and Tony should probably be a bit more lenient, but right now he isn't feeling reasonable.

"I didn't do a fucking thing," Barton says, _lies_ , defensively, "Not to cause that shit."

" _Look_ at that. That isn't nothing, that's our resident demigod squirming on the floor like a cat whose tail just got squashed. By a _truck_."

"He was fine right up until the collar got hit," Pepper interjects, "Though he seemed to lose it a bit when he got backed into the corner."

"You shot his _collar_? What if you'd missed? His _throat's_ under that."

"He looked ready to strangle me. I had to shoot somewhere to let him know I was serious. I didn't know it'd to _this_."

"You'd think him eating waffles was an indication of deadly intentions."

Clint rubs his neck awkwardly.

No denials there.

"What the fuck was he even _doing_ here anyway?"

"We sprung him from SHIELD a week ago," Tony bites out.

"I told him that," Pepper adds.

"The fuck you did, Tony. What about _Coulson_?"

Wordlessly, Tony stalks from the room. Wordlessly he returns with the laptop.

"Jarvis, bring up the footage of Loki. The stuff from the cell."

Clint looks rebellious and a bit guilty, which is good but not good _enough_. Tasha's features are impassive. Steve is still holding Loki whose still making those noises which make Tony want to punch _someone._ And if he can't target the Allfather for putting on their equivalent of a shock collar on his adopted son, Clint is an acceptable stand in. Pepper kneels down next to Steve and asks quietly if there's anything she can _do_.

There's not.

And then the footage is being shown and it's just as bad as Tony remembers. Worse. Because this isn't just an unknown stranger, bad as that was. This is the person who is wearing a Captain America T-shirt and laughs at Han Solo and can't stand the smell of lemons.

"Fuck," Clint breathes.

Tasha's expression has gone from impassive to closed.

"Look as long as you want," Tony offers unkindly.

" _Fuck_."


	11. Clint and Tasha Are In!

It's Steve who ends up dragging Loki up and onto the couch, mainly because he's the only one strong enough to restrain and lift the writhing trickster. And if he chooses one which happens to be facing away from Clint, well, that's just the luck of the draw.

Pepper stands next to the supersoldier, worried and ineffectual. She's... _hovering_. It takes Tony a moment to realise that, yes, that is what this is. Mainly because she's Pepper and she's usually a whole lot more in control of everything than everyone else. But she looked like this, he remembers, when he wanted her to help him replace his arc reactor. The difference is that this time there isn't anything she can do.

The rest of them crowd around the laptop.

Tony lets Clint squirm for all of five minutes before closing the device. He'd let him it go on longer but, well, he has no desire to vomit in front of two world class assassins. Doing it in front of Steve was bad enough.

The archer draws in a ragged breath when the video ends.

"Fuck."

Tony nods, and tries to yank an arrow out of the chair behind him. And fails, again and again until finally, finally the thing is out. He chucks it over near the wall and seats himself. The other two follow suit, though he can't help noting that they manage to get the arrows out first pull.

Karma? Bullshit.

"He looked like _that_ a week ago?" Clint demands.

"Yep. Looks like death, doesn't he? Forget the warmed over. You should have seen him once we'd washed him. I mean, sure he's scrawny, now and when he was busy blowing Manhattan to kingdom come. But a week ago... His clothes were _hanging_ off him. Practically flinched if you twitched near him."

"He heals fast," Tasha says.

"Yeah. He does. Tough as a cockroach."

Barton frowns.

Tony shoots him an interrogative look.

The archer ignores him, and hey, what's tact useful for anyway?

"You look like you stepped on someone's pet. What gives?"

Clint meets his eyes then.

"Just thinking Tony... he looked like shit when he first stepped through the portal too. I'd assumed it was the lighting—that tesseract thing made us all look like first class creeps. Stumbled when we were getting into the cars after he'd sticked me, too. I didn't think much of it at the time. Didn't think much of anything, really."

It says something that the man can actually bring up his time as a zombie. There was a period during that first month where he just shouted or punched anyone dumb enough to mention it. Followed by the one where he kind of shriveled. Now there's a sort of bleak acceptance.

Privately Tony gives the archer a mental thumbs up. He suspects he's still at stage shrivel about his own torture. Not that it matters. It's not like anyone else is ever going to bring it up and he's got the suit now. It can never happen again.

_Focus. Loki. Not you. Loki. Focus._

"You think those alien things were getting him too?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Steve stiffening.

"I'm not saying that," Clint hedges, "Just curious that he wasn't in top condition if he heals that fast. Probably reading too much into weird lights and a simple stumble though."

"I'm not certain you are," Steve says, not turning away from his charge, "He told me yesterday his allies were... I think 'not kind' was the phrase he used. He implied there wasn't much to choose between in terms of Odin's punishments and theirs."

Tasha still looks to be in shut-down mode, so far as Tony can tell. But then, Pepper's always said he's pretty bottom class at reading others. Something about projecting too much.

"Sucks to be him," Tony concludes, after a minute or so of digesting that, " _Not kind_. Understatement of the century if that is true..."

"Speaking of sucking, what the fuck was that collar-fit?"

"I'm not sure but I think maybe it's some type of shock-collar or-,"

"- You _think_. I think we should wait until he can tell us," Tasha interjects.

Tony shoots her a hurt look.

"You aren't interested in my speculations?"

"Not particularly."

 _Ouch_.

"Fine. Fine. Whatever it is, he said Odin stuck it on him. Stops his magic, I know that much. I'd assumed that was all it did. It hasn't done anything like this before. But then no one decided to just up and _shoot_ him there either before either," he finishes pointedly.

Clint has the grace to flush.

"You could have given me a heads up. A ' _by the way, Loki, you remember that mass murdering maniac who mind-controlled you and stabbed Coulson? well, he's on our side now_ '."

"Yeah? We were trying. Until you decided you needed the _bathroom_ less than one minute in."

"Did Fury authorise... that?" Tasha says, bluntly turning the subject.

Tony breaks his silent glaring contest with Clint.

"That's why we called you in, actually. That. Weapons. Agents disappearing. The works."

And this is the key of course. Only Steve was the one who'd practiced saying it. Because until they know if the agents'll be helping them, Loki insisted that they 'keep their motives veiled'. No revealing if they are suspicious of Fury or Mr Unknown Asshole until they _know_. Because according to the demigod, it's their reactions which are being counted on to drive... everything.

"But we're helping Loki. So if you can't handle that..."

"Now is the time to withdraw," Steve finishes.

If he were feeling nice, Tony might have added an "if you do you will still have my respect and friendship" at this point. He isn't, so he just ups the appealing look to "confiding puppy" and ramps the "I'm your friend, aren't you mine too?" pressure to three hundred percent.

Tasha is the first to cave with an:

"Alright, Tony, I'll help. That isn't _anything_ SHIELD should stand for. Not him. Not anyone."

But then, Tony's always labelled her as the pragmatic one.

It's just Clint, then.

The archer's eyes flick from Tony to the couch, then back again. Finally he slumps.

"Oh what the fuck? I'm in. Tasha's got the right of it. Still don't like him though."

The last part is muttered darkly, but Tony allows himself a short moment of relief anyway.

Then he steels himself and tells them _everything_.

At the end, it's Clint who says:

"So... all that—stuff. Everything. That wasn't revenge or, or... it was just a fucking easy way to get us to react to bring down Fury?"

"Well... according to Loki. To get _us_ to react, anyway. Not sure what the game was with you two, no offense."

"Why didn't he let you? React and topple SHIELD that is."

It's Tasha, not Tony, who answers the archer's query.

"Because then _they_ would have won. Not him. Not us. Them. And I imagine he hates them rather a lot right now."

She sounds like she understands and Tony tries not to think too much about why.

After a moment or two she rises and pulls out a pair of tweezers from a pocket. Tony blinks stupidly at her for a moment. And then she walks over to Steve and passes them over and that's when he thinks 'oh'.

Because the supersoldier seems to be trying to pluck out shards of glass from the now-unconscious demigod's fingers and arms and wherever else the vase cut in. Steve's own hands are red.

"Thank you, Natasha," the captain says, offering her a hopelessly strained smile.

"Don't mention it."

Clint spares a sweeping glance for the room. If his gaze lingers on one particular couch a bit, well, Tony's kind enough not to mention it.

"Sorry. About the furniture and shit."

"Billionaire, Clint. Billionaire."

But he thinks he knows what the man means.

OoOoOoOoO

The first thing he knows is that he isn't dead. A relief, that.

The fact that the _reason_ he knows is that dear Hela would never subject him to the stabbing rawness that is now his throat is less comforting.

"Water," he rasps, then, a second or so too late, "Please."

There's the sound of chairs creaking and a "he's awake" and then something shifts on his arms.

Warmth.

Hands. Touching him.

Someone is touching him.

Loki manages to crack open one eyelid. He follows the hands clasped firmly about his forearms up too—

"Steve?"

There's a tightness about the supersoldier's eyes and his lips are thinned. But in the comfortingly blue eyes he can read only concern and he supposes it's... alright. Alright to be touched by him because it's just Steve. Steve who doesn't think he's a monster and who painted the plaster cast he keeps hidden in the bottom drawer beneath his pyjamas and which he looks at sometimes when he can't sleep.

"Steve? You are-," he breaks off, coughing.

Steve is speaking and he tries to make out the words past the sudden roaring in his ears.

"Is anyone-,"

"-yeah. Yeah. Pep's onto it, Cap. Just fetching a glass."

They're both here.

They haven't dumped him with a healer and left.

He feels a sudden warmth exploding deep inside and it makes no _sense_ because this is not Asgard and there _is_ no healer here to dump him with but he can't be bothered trying to reason it away. Later he will, when his chest doesn't hurt and his hands aren't stinging like paper cuts in vinegar. For now he settles for trying to breathe in and out and in again. His coughing has stopped now.

Steve's hands are going.

 _Or maybe not,_ he amends a second later. _Just shifting._

They're pulling him upright and managing to do so in a way which won't leave him bruised. Loki decides that the supersoldier has already beaten both Tyr and Thor in the healing arena through that alone.

Something cold is being pressed into his palm . It takes him a moment longer than it probably should to recognise it as a glass of cool water.

Then he's holding it to his parched lips and forcing himself to remember that guzzling water is a bad thing to do when ill. He makes himself drink it slowly. Slowly—too slowly—the rawness in his throat subsides.

When feels he can speak at last, he lowers the half-empty glass.

"You can let go of me now."

Possibly he should have phrased that more diplomatically.

Fortunately the supersoldier doesn't take offense. He lets go gently and Loki finds himself uncoiling, tension he hadn't even realised was there trickling away into nothingness.

"What was that, Loki?"

"What was what?" he hedges.

"That fucking fit you threw," a voice echoes across the other side of the room and it's _Barton_.

Barton is here and he, Loki, is alive. He tentatively labels it a plus.

"Oh. _That_."

He rubs at the collar self-consciously.

"Yeah, that," Stark confirms.

"I imagine that was just a deterrent."

"A _deterrent_? That was more than a _deterrent_. You were out of it for _half an hour_."

"I was?"

Actually, now they mention it he does seem to recall some rather undignified writhing and moaning.

"You better believe it buddy. You looked like my neighbor's dog did after my old man hit it once drink driving. Hobbled around for weeks before it got better. Now how the hell does that get labelled a simple 'deterrent'?"

"Oh. Well, I've told you the collar suppresses my magic, yes?"

Murmured assent.

"Well, what I did _not_ say was that there are two ways to stop a sorcerer from using their magic. One is to bind it inwards and prevent its use. My sort. It is still there—but I can't reach for it. Like watching fish swim in water though glass only I'm the fish and my magic wants to reach me but it... it can't."

All of them look blank. Loki is not sure how to explain it any better, though, so he does not try.

He does not like this subject.

"The second," he continues, eyes on his water, "Is to bind it with runes carved into the flesh, which is rather painful. And permanent. Most of us die after that, unless we were especially weak in our art. Like having your liver cut out, or your heart. I saw it done once, to a Jotun. She was a monster but I... she screamed so very much and there just wasn't anything _left_ afterwards. So when I say a deterrent, I simply mean that if I smash the collar I will deal with one dent's worth of pain times—everything. If anything _would_ shatter it. It prevents me from trying, because _that_ will follow every failure."

He reaches for his glass, as much because his little speech has made him thirsty as to give him something to _do_.

"So it really isn't as bad as it _could_ have been," he finishes.

"What'd she done?"

Blunt. Unpleasant. Answers he simply doesn't want to give, and yes, it would be Barton who asked for them. He swallows the water and tries to fight down a sudden wave of nausea.

"She was a spy for the forces of Muspelheim. Don't ask me how a Jotun managed to join their side."

_Enough. Enough. Let that be enough._

"Yeah? And?"

But he supposes Barton deserves to know, if anyone does.

"She favored the school of mental domination. Our strategies shattered against Muspelheim and no one would believe me when I suggested she was passing information to their side. She was charming. Well liked. More so than me. I was, you see, rather young at the time, and it was not long after—," he breaks off, with a little shrug. "I had no proof. Even then, I had a reputation for deceiving others. For mischief. My words were dismissed as those of a jealous, untried youth. It did not help that she wore the form of a Vanir. Even _I_ did not know she was Jotun until later."

The water mocks him. Loki sneers at it.

"And?" Barton says, once more.

"And so I visited her myself. I convinced her I was the new strategist— no easy task— and then, later, that she had succeeded in dominating me. Simply put, I told her false plans, and I told Tyr which plans she would mistakenly believe to be true. We won."

"So why not just kill her afterwards? You lot seem to be into that."

Loki takes another mouthful. His knuckles are white against the glass.

"You don't have to answer. This isn't an inquisition."

Steve. Loki feels a sudden, absurd rush of fondness for the mortal. It shouldn't _mean_ as much as it does to have someone actually stand up for him. Pathetic, really, that it seems to.

He's fine though. He _is._ None of this is wrong in a way talking about can really change. It just _hurts_.

"We are, of course," he says, to Barton. "Into that, that is. Execution has always been the easiest way to deal with traitors and Frost Giants. Unfortunately for ease, she had been very interested in... proof. Of my obedience. Of her control. She bore me two children. I bore her one. As a woman, near the end when the stakes were higher and she grew more... extreme. They called her the mother of monsters, but they were _my_ children too. A mother of an Aesir child cannot be executed because they are counted as one of us, and the punishment for directly ending the life of any Aesir is death."

" _Shit_. Angrboda?" Stark says.

Loki throws him a startled glance, brows twitching together.

"How did...?"

"Mythology. Internet," the mortal gestures in the direction of his laptop, "But that's not what they said happened."

"Well, I think I know better what happened in my life than a bunch of uneducated _mortals_ ," Loki says, lip curling, staring fixedly at his cup. "Not that it matters. _None_ of this matters."

"Maybe, but can I ask though, before we bury it. What did they say? Your family, I mean. To you saving Asgard?" Stark says.

Loki feels his face twisting into a weary sneer.

"What should they have said? A man, taking the form of a woman, bearing a child? Spying. _Lying._ It could not be hushed up. I was a disgrace to the honour of Asgard. For years the whispers followed me, but I did not _care_. I had won. I had three children I _loved_. Better a home which sneered at me for a century or so for doing what needed to be done than charred ruins and pride for eternity. Or so I thought at the time."

Silence descends.

Barton breaks it.

"You know that whole whipped dog thing? I take it back. That's... life as a fucking second Prince _sucks_."

Loki twists around on the couch to stare at the archer.

"Really, really, really sucks."

Loki raises an interrogative eyebrow.

"... Tony showed me the footage. Not saying I like you. But I'll help. SHIELD isn't Asgard, and I don't think the shit they pulled on you there was anything approaching cool."

Barton, Loki thinks, is far kinder than himself. All of them here seem to be.

He inclines his head, and allows his gaze to slip across to Romanoff. She shrugs.

"I'm with Barton."

That is less surprising. He has hurt her less.

He offers her a respectful nod anyway.

"So...," he says, "What has Stark told you?"

"Everything," said genius cuts in, "Or, well, everything you told us. If that was everything than, yeah, everything."

 _Everything_.

"So now, Romanoff, Barton," Loki says, rising and turning to face them properly, "Now, I need you to tell me two things. Firstly: Who will become the new director if Fury is forced to step down? And secondly: How far are you prepared to go to stop them?"


	12. Plans, More Plans and Polt

The silence lengthens from seconds to minutes as the agents consider his question. Loki is conscious of a cynical suspicion that he's not authorised to hear the answers. That they won't _tell_ him. He brushes it aside. They are on the same side now, and they have more to lose than he if things do go poorly.

"Well?" Loki glances pointedly between the two of them.

"... At a guess I'd say Hill. She's deputy director already," Barton rubs his nose thoughtfully, "But if she were implicated too..."

_Hill. But—?_

"Why would she be implicated? She helped us," Steve says, frowning.

"It doesn't matter," Romanoff says, with crisp authority, "If she lied to Fury about Loki, and the weapons, she will be considered unsuitable by the Council. It shows a lack of respect, for SHIELD and for them, challenging the judgement of the executive director they appointed. Unless Fury gave her permission. But association with him will be almost as bad in that case. No... if she didn't raise it with the Council she _will_ be implicated."

"That's—how the fuck do _you_ know the Council's rules? I barely know they _exist_."

"Level ten clearance, Barton. Level ten."

Barton whistles. Loki raises an eyebrow.

"One gathers this level ten is a good thing?"

"Yep."

"... But not something one really explains to supervillains in case they get ideas?"

"Ex-supervillain Robbie, _ex_. At least, I hope you are. You are, aren't you?" Tony puts in.

"I-," Loki starts.

He's cut off before he can concede the point by a startled, "- _what_ did you call him?" and Barton sounds so much like _he_ had that he allows an undignified snort to escape him.

Stark looks sheepish.

"Robbie. You know, the Reindeer? Um. Yeah... thought it was funny at the time and it kind of stuck. Makes more sense when he's all horned up though."

"... tell me you _didn't_ nickname him after a kids entertainment show."

Loki turns his back on them. At least _Romanoff_ has some grasp on the severity of the situation. He debates, briefly, going over to sit next to her. It feels foolish standing as he is with the couch between them. Rather like looking over a short wall. But on the other hand... well, it's effort versus inclination, really. In the end, he stays where he is.

"So if not Hill, than who?"

To the side, Stark and Barton are flaunting their own unique brand of insanity. He catches the words "Rudolph", "Blitzen" and "Ralph". They mean nothing and he can't be bothered trying to decipher them.

"Romanoff?"

"Give me a moment, Loki. I'm thinking."

_Fair enough._

He would fidget with something to occupy himself, but his hands sting when he moves them. And while he is quite adept at dealing with pain, it isn't something he enjoys.

And then Potts is coughing softly at his elbow.

"Do you want some antiseptic for your hands?"

_Antiseptic?_

"I don't think I'm familiar..."

"It stops infections. I mean, who _knows_ what was on that vase before it got here. Or the floors."

"I...," he fully intends to refuse. To assure her that Aesir— _Jotnar_ , a treacherous voice whispers—do not sicken so easily. But she has the look Frigga sometimes got when Baldur first started dreaming of his death. Helplessness, coloured by a desperate need to be of use.

"I would like that. It would be a pity to sicken when it could so easily be avoided," he blurts out instead, and he's pleased, in that moment, that no one here can recognise the lie for what it is.

Her face lightens.

"Oh. Good. I'll be back in a moment-,"

"-Hey, Pepper, seeing as you're getting up anyway, can you bring back the scotch? And," Stark does a rapid headcount, "six glasses?"

"I won't be drinking," Steve says.

"Five then," Stark concludes.

Potts fixes him with a _look_. Its meaning must be clearer to Stark than to him, because the man adds a hasty:

"Or not. I can, um, fetch it myself. Not a problem."

Barton snickers.

"Rub it in, Legolas. Rub it in."

Then Stark rises with a groan and trots out of the room. Potts disappears a second or two after him. Romanoff is still deep in thought and Loki finds himself wanting to fill up the sudden quiet. He hesitates for a moment, and then asks:

"Do you intend to use 'antiseptic' on _your_ arm, Barton?"

The archer directs a cursory glance at the limb.

"Nah. Stuff fucking stings. Never got an infection from a bullet graze before. I'll be fine."

Then Barton tilts his head back on the chair and shuts his eyes.

"It's too late in the day for this shit. Tasha, wake me when something interesting happens. No, wake me when the drinks get here."

"Your attention span is worse than _Volstagg's._ "

"Yeah? I think I read his file actually. Big man. I'd have chosen Obelix for a nickname, if I'd been calling it. Or Gimli. Battled your destroyer at New Mexico. That the one?"

_What is it with mortals and nicknames?_

"Most likely. He is rather fond of his meals."

"You don't say? I thought you lot lived on _steroids_ to get up your muscle tone."

"... steroids?"

"Drugs. Chemical substances which fuck you up or clean you up inside. Mostly the former. Let you pull shit which really shouldn't be possible. It was a joke."

"Ah."

A pause, then:

"I imagine if any of us needed them it would be Heimdall. Do you know, in all my lifetime he has never slept?"

"You're kidding."

"Oh no. Heimdall sees all always."

Barton absorbs that.

"Sucks to be him."

Loki snorts.

"So... how does he see you chatting with us and... and Thor smashing shit in Asgard? At the same time as everything else?"

"... do you know, I never asked."

He's still thinking about that when he is jerked out of his musings by a 'wake up Clint' from Romanoff.

"Nnng hrng."

"Clint. _Clint_."

The archer drags himself upright with a groan.

"I said I was awake," he says unconvincingly, yawning into his fist.

Then the door slides open and Stark enters with a squat crystal bottle, half full, and a tower of glass cups. Potts is beside him with an ominous brown bottle and a bag of white, fluffy little balls.

"So," Stark says, eying the lot of them, "Does anyone else want a scotch?"

"Do I want one? It's fucking _midnight_. I got up at _five_. I want a double. Triple," Barton pauses, frowning.

"Quadruple," Romanoff supplies automatically, and then, after the archer nods, "And just the one for me."

"Double," Loki requests.

Potts eyes, he notices, are rather red. Stark's shirt looks damp too. He supposes that explains why it took the mortal so long to walk down one hallway fetch the drinks.

Potts settles down next to him with her bottle, labelled _Betadine Antiseptic Solution 10%_. It means nothing but he extends a hand anyway, when she reaches for it. She places one of the—he squints at the label on the bag— the 'cotton balls' over the open bottle and upends it quickly. There's a layer of brown liquid stuck to the thing now.

"This will sting a bit," Potts warns.

She is right.

Loki allows his mind to wander as she dabs the stuff over him.

To remember his childhood, wandering in the gardens with Thor and doing his best to steal Idunn's apples just to see if he _could_.

It's... not so bad. He will, he thinks, stick with Barton's philosophy next time, but he has had far worse. Once Potts has finished, she tells him not to 'wash the brown off'.

"Very well," he lies.

Then he turns toward Romanoff.

"Have you finished thinking?"

She takes a deep drought from her glass before answering.

"...Yes. I think, if Fury were to be proven to be compromised, then his successor would most likely be Polt. He retired a few years back, but he used to be executive director."

" _Polt_? But he was so anti-being-compromised he fucking _resigned_ when he thought he could be," Barton objects.

"Why did he resign?" Steve asks.

The agents look at each other for a moment.

"Hey, if he's the big bad here it's not like revealing his personal history is going to break your rules," Stark wheedles.

Romanoff nods after a moment or two.

"His wife was ill. He felt he couldn't be trusted not to be compromised if he got offered a cure, so he let Fury take over. He was good. Fury was better. He wasn't asked to step back up after she passed away and he never requested the job back. He has influence though, and he keeps an eye on the newer agents."

"So..." Loki says, softly, "Motive. Opportunity."

Steve raises an eyebrow, but Romanoff is nodding.

"Huh?"

Ever eloquent, Stark.

"His wife perished. Unless I am misreading the situation, an enemy had—or might have had—the power to save her. He would not otherwise have stepped down on her account."

"HYDRA," Romanoff says, nodding. "Their medicinal science was more advanced than ours fifteen years ago. It still is, for that matter. They wanted weapons research in exchange for the cure—Fury refused. The team sent in to try to steal the cure never came back. Fury didn't send in a second."

"And you know this _how_?"

"Level ten clearance, Stark. It's in the files. I remember reading it once when I was researching HYDRA."

Steve frowns.

"So what you are saying is that he wants revenge on Fury—on SHIELD—for not helping his wife? Or for stealing his job? And that he... but why? Why, if he was so anti-being compromised?"

"Beats me," Barton says, holding his empty glass out hopefully.

Stark, one seat across, pours him a refill.

"Perhaps he simply... snapped?" Loki suggests, "A lifetime of service to your organisation, to the point of sacrificing his family for it—all thrown back in his face. No cure. No recognition. No position. I imagine it would rankle."

And why does that sound so painfully familiar?

"I just don't get it," Stark complains, "I'm with Steve on this one. How the hell do you go from that much of a SHIELD loyalist to 'I'll-screw-Fury-and-the-world-while-I'm-at-it'? I mean, sure _then_. But why now? Why not compromise us _then_ for his wife is he's happy doing that? He has to know that as soon as there's an official trial, as soon as we voice our suspicions, he's going to be screwed."

Loki shrugs.

"Remember, we were not supposed to _have_ suspicions. And even were his involvement to be made clear later, a short period could be enough to compromise your SHIELD. As for conflicting motivations? I am not sure. Operating on the assumption that he is the only one in a position to profit from everything, he _must_ have them. I cannot guess what they are.

"And so we need a plan. We need to find out more about this 'Polt'. What made him do this. What else he has planned in case we don't react the way he wants. His fail-safe. Whether he's himself or a shapeshifter. Who the shapeshifter replacing Fury was. And we need a way to do it which will not alert them to the fact that we know what they are doing."

He stops, considering. There are elements to be woven together. Pieces of the board he can't see. So much that is obvious and yet makes so little apparent _sense_. He needs—

"... You know, you sure you're up for plotting? I mean, you were all coughing and shit and now you're fucking Sherlock Holmes."

Loki glances up at the archer, startled.

"I... what? _Who_ is-?"

Stark and Barton exchange glances.

"Don't worry, Robbie. We'll soon get you sorted," Stark says bracingly, "The cool version, not the opium-addict pipe one."

"You only think he's cool because it's an action movie and he looks a bit like _you,_ " Romanoff says.

"Hey, I'm allowed to admire my own good looks. And there are explosions. Explosions beat ' _elementary my dear Watson_ ' and 'Oh no, this dog thing would be suspenseful if I hadn't read the books five times' any day."

Barton snorts.

"Tony, you haven't read for _years_ ," Potts says.

Stark deflates slightly.

"True. But there are some things you don't forget. Like that dog. And the freaky snake thing. And the insanity poison."

"You _had_ to bring it up," Barton groans, "Do you know how many nightmares those fucking root things gave me?"

Loki eyes the two of them doubtfully.

"What roots?"

"Read it. Internet. Pdf. You need to have read it, Robbie. Words don't really do it justice," Stark finishes with a shudder.

Even Steve nods.

And old book then.

"I—very well. I shall read this 'Sherlock Holmes'."

"And watch the movie. It's on—I'm putting it on our list."

"We have a _list_?"

"We do now."

"Any chance of you returning to the actual issue, Tony?" Romanoff says, "Because some of us have better things to do than listen to you ramble. Like _sleeping_."

"Hey, it was _him_ who got us side-tracked."

" _Tony_."

"What?"

Romanoff groans.

"She has a point," Steve says.

"Yeah..." Barton concedes, "Some of us live _two hours_ away. And have to both sleep _and_ get up before twelve tomorrow."

And if that isn't a hint, Loki decides he doesn't know what is. It takes Stark all of three seconds to pick it up.

"You guys are welcome to sleep here, you know. Just saying. Partners in crime and all that. I have spare rooms. I have floors of spare rooms."

Barton grins.

"You know, I might just take you up on that. Can't be bothered getting a cab at this hour anyway."

Romanoff, too, nods with a, "Tony? Thanks.".

"Which saves us another two hours that we can use to plan," Loki remarks.

"The plan. The _plan_. Well, I'm gonna go for medical reasons," Barton says, "It's always fucking medical reasons."

Romanoff gives the archer's third refill a long look.

"It shouldn't be too hard to access the files. But Tony? I can give you the codes for Polt's file—every agent has one listing everything they've done—but you will need an algorithm which doesn't alert the SHIELD computers they have been compromised. Work on that. If you blow this, we will all be compromised. In the meantime, I'll do my best to convince anyone who matters I'm suspicious of Fury. With Clint."

And this, _this_ is why Loki wanted the Spider's help. Because with her aid, the burden of planning—of thinking through every aspect, every possible error and mistake—does not lie squarely on his own shoulders. Her words make _sense_.

"Right..." Stark says.

"And me?" Steve asks.

"You," Loki says thoughtfully, "You— can you lie?"

It's something he's privately wondered. The supersoldier always seems so painfully, Thorishly, _honest_.

"Um..."

"No," Stark says for him.

"Then you respectfully request some time to... think things through. You don't go near Fury. You avoid SHIELD and you stay here. Unless I'm much mistaken, Polt already knows _I'm_ here. He'd be a fool not to, if he planned this. So you give the impression that you are distancing yourself from SHIELD. Preparing."

"And I will look up trading agreements," Potts says, firmly, "And SHIELD regulations for treatment of war-prisoners."

Loki eyes her sideways.

"... Good. And if you can, do it in such a way that your access to such data is well hidden but ultimately traceable. SHIELD, or rather Polt, should know we are interested."

And if that just _happens_ to make Fury squirm he will not be displeased.

"And that's it?" Stark asks, already well into his fourth glass.

"I think so. Until we know more."

There's a long moment of silence in which everyone is either thinking, pretending to do so, or openly going to sleep. Then Stark rouses himself.

"You know what I think? Planning is... I can't even say. But I'm telling you now, I'm _never_ going to go villain."

Loki gives that mental image a moment's consideration.

"You could not, anyway."

"Oh? Why's that?"

_Because you show too much compassion to those who have not earned it. Because you have heart._

"Because you have a weakness for monologuing mid battle which any hero with two brain cells to rub together could manipulate. Enough of them do. You wouldn't last a day."

"Ouch, Robbie. You know, that's just plain hurtful."

Loki smirks at him.

OoOoOoOoO

That night, after he has washed the antiseptic off his hands, he Google's ' _Sherlock Holmes book Pdf_ '. Stark and Barton, strangely enough, are right. The stories are _good_. He falls asleep part way into 'The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.'


	13. Memories of a Shattered Life

_He's three hundred and he's returned with Thor from negotiations in Alfheim._

_They've been away nearly a year—he is not well liked there, but it does not matter. It is his brother who feasts and laughs the days away. Who must be admired. Loved. It is Loki who spends night after night ensuring the treaties are drawn up in Asgard's favour._

_But at last it is done. They are home and he is mounting his steed, brought by servants to the bifrost._

_"Brother, will you ride home with me?" Thor asks._

_Loki can teleport, of course. But that is not why he shakes his head._

_Fenris has not come to meet him._

_He has been away with Thor for longer periods than this and always, always Fenris will bound up to greet him when he gets home._

_Today there is nothing._

_He doesn't know how long he waits there hoping that somehow this is just a delay. That his hulking son, still new to the art of shapeshifting, is just avoiding the crowds. That Heimdall's refusal to answer isn't sinister._

_That somehow it will all be okay._

_It's Amora who tells him to ask the Allfather._

_OoOoOoOoO_

_"Where is Fenris?"_

_He is standing before his father in their audience chamber, trying to stay calm. To fight down the wave of nausea that threatens to cripple him._

_Tyr stands beside the Allfather, and Loki swallows for a moment, uncertain, when he becomes aware of the stump that is—was—his little brother's right hand. Later he will ask. But not now._

_Why won't father_ tell _him?_

" _Father, where is my son?"_

 _He is not shaking. He is_ not _._

 _Only, there was Jormungand, cast into Midgard's oceans just because Odin feared he might one day be a threat. But his son had flourished there. He tries to convince himself that Odin knew this. That his father had_ known _that only that pitiful realm had enough water to hold the vastness of his son's true form._

_He doesn't really succeed._

" _Where is he?"_

_The Allfather remains silent._

_But Hela... father had been kind to Hela. Had allowed Loki to take her away from the mockery of the court to raise her, and, when she'd been old enough, given her the realm of the dead to rule. Full stewardship over the souls of the Aesir for eternity. Or at least, the ones which weren't allowed into Valhalla._

_Loki allows his gaze to slip to the left. To Tyr._

_His little brother is proud. Has always been. He meets Loki's eyes squarely, but his usual sternness is softened now by the vaguest hint of pity._

_Loki feels a hollow pain stir somewhere deep inside, like a blunt dagger he had always known was there has been suddenly twisted._

" _What have you done?"_

_He hates the desperation which creeps into his voice._

_The Allfather has taken every other child for the good of Asgard._

_Why not Fenris?_

_And then Odin is talking, voice cold as the wastes of Jotunheim._

" _Loki. My child. Your son has been bound. Forever. My judgement is final."_

_Bound? Not exile but—_

" _Can we not—reason through this? If he has done some wrong, perhaps a wergild on his behalf-,"_

" _No Loki. Your children were monsters. You would do well to forget that you ever had them. For your sons I have cast out and you will have no ties with the stewardess of the unworthy dead. I am sorry."_

 _No. No you are_ not _sorry._

_He is shaking still but it is fury, not fear, which governs him now._

" _They are not monsters. They are only_ half _so by blood, and my blood will burn away Angrboda's in time. Already Fenris and Hela can shift themselves to look like us. You didn't give Jor-,"_

_The Allfather cuts him off, expression thunderous._

" _Silence, Loki. Know that your place in Asgard is not to question my judgement but to uphold it. They are unworthy. And I have cast them out. You_ have _no children now. That is all there is to be said."_

_Loki is as pale as his father is red._

" _Where is he?"_

" _I will tell you when I think you have learned enough not to defy my commands."_

" _But-,"_

" _Enough."_

_Grungnir slams into the ground._

_Loki can feel his eyes burning. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it. Air moves past his lips, but no sound. He tries again. Nothing._

_And never, in all his three hundred years, has he felt such anger as he does now. It burns and burns and there is nothing he can_ do _. He cannot even choke out the proper farewells. He turns, cloak swirling behind him as he leaves._

_OoOoOoOoO_

_It's Thor who finds him next to Sleipnir, blotched, crumpled and weary._

" _Brother? Will you feast with us?"_

_He wants to tell him to go away. To let him wallow in his own misery. But he can't even lie and say he will come out soon._

" _Brother?"_

_Thor inches past the huge, eight legged steed and kneels down next to Loki._

_Loki stares up at him, forcing all the misery he can from his face._

_He does not try to speak. To do so would be an even greater weakness and he can't bear to admit his words are gone with everything else. Let Thor assume he is silent by choice._

_"I... I brought you some spiced duck? You do not have to join us if... if you would rather not. In fact, I will stay with you. I was planning to eat elsewhere anyway. It is much too loud in there," his older brother finishes stoutly._

_He knows the other's words are lies. Everyone in there loves the golden Prince, courageous in battle, generous in victory and defeat. And Thor doesn't simply enjoy the praise, he soaks it up like a desiccated sponge._

_But still... it is nice, he thinks, to be chosen._

_He nods._

_His brother stretches his cape on the ground and sets the two heaped platters he has brought on top._

_"And an apple for my nephew," Thor adds, extracting one of the golden fruits from a pocket and offering it to Sleipnir._

_My nephew._

_It's hard to swallow past the sudden lump inside his throat._

_Thor has approximately three seconds to free his hands before he has an armful of Loki sobbing mutely and pathetically into his tunic._

_"Father told me about Fenris," Thor says, after ten minutes or so have passed, "I am sorry it had to be done."_

_The words aren't quite right. But they're not wrong enough for him to push Thor away._

_And so he stays there, while his golden fool of a brother pats his back and tries his awkward best to comfort him._

_OoOoOoOoO_

_Father never does tell him where his son is. It's Tyr who does that two weeks of fruitless scrying later._

_He's lying awake in his chambers worrying and thinking when he hears the brisk knock. And then his little brother has entered and is staring at his wreck of a room with studied indifference._

_"What do you want?"_

" _I care little for your monstrous brood," Tyr begins, ignoring the sudden coldness in Loki's eyes, "But I accept that you do. I will take you to your wolf, if you desire it."_

_Loki is up and dressed in minutes._

" _Yes," he breathes, all anger forgotten._

_Tyr nods._

" _You may need to," he makes a vague gesture, "We are two months journey from him."_

" _Teleportation?"_

" _I admit, brother, I am not really familiar with the terms for the womanly arts."_

_One spell and three hours later, they stand before his son._

_OoOoOoOoO_

_The chains are thin and each delicate link stinks of sorcery. They eat into the flesh where Fenris has struggled. He is a huge beast, his son, but he seems pitifully small as he lies unmoving on the wet ground. His fur is matted and dark with filth. His eyes are yellow now, half mad with fury and pain. Loki wonders, for a moment, why he does not howl. And then he stiffens._

_Between his son's lips is wedged a sword, its sharp edges facing upwards. Each movement of the huge jaws causes it to cut in and already Fenris' mouth is bleeding. His tongue lolls out the side, half severed._

_The air is heavy with wet, rasping panting._

_He doesn't remember when he started running. Only that he is at Fenris' side and trying desperately to lift the sword out without hurting his son more._

" _Why did they_ do _this to him brother?_ Why _?"_

_Tyr makes his way over to him._

_There is no hatred in his eyes as he does so. No fear. Only callous indifference._

" _Mother had a vision. He is to bring great destruction, apparently. She said something about swallowing the moon and killing father."_

_Killing father._

_His son, destined to kill the Allfather._

_He feels sick._

_Small wonder Odin could barely stand to_ look _at him as he'd demanded—begged—for answers._

" _Could there not be some error? Some mistake?"_

" _Unlikely. Mother's visions always come to pass. Eventually."_

_And how he hates his brother for speaking that truth._

_He is trying and trying to pull the sword free and why won't it_ move _?_

_Tyr stands beside him then._

" _The sword won't shift, brother. Father enchanted it when he bound your son's magic. Fenris was... keeping people awake howling."_

_Loki fights off a wave of hysterical sobs._

" _Father... I_ hate _this. Why not a silencing spell? He knows them well enough."_

_"I do not know. But father does what he must for the good of Asgard. We all do. If Fenris is to kill him and swallow the moon, does it really matter if he is punished before or after? It does not to me. But I am sorry it had to be your son. Though given his mother..." Tyr shrugs._

_"If you were not my younger brother, I would_ strike _you."_

_"You can punch Thor if you think hitting anyone will make you feel better. As for myself, I count one lost hand price enough for all this."_

_Loki frowns at him._

_"Did they not tell you? Your son agreed to be bound as a game if someone placed a hand inside his mouth. A gesture of goodwill. He did not trust the chains. No one wanted to because we had no intention of keeping faith. Only Baldur said the deed should not be done if we were not prepared to do so openly. So I volunteered. For the good of Asgard, brother."_

_For the good of Asgard. For the good of Asgard._

_Always, always, everything he hates is for the good of Asgard._

_OoOoOoOoO_

_After the first decade, he no longer feels gut wrenching horror when he visits his son. There is only a dull numbness he tells himself is good. It hurts less. When he cannot visit he sends illusions to sit with his son and talk on his behalf. Sometimes he even manages to coax amusement onto Fenris' savage features._

_It is, he tells himself, not so bad._

_But there is an edge to his pranks now. His 'bits of fun'. A vein of malice, cruel and sharp as his finest blades._

_And when Baldur's firstborn son is welcomed and loved by all of Asgard—when Baldur tells him, laughing, that he thinks Frigga will enjoy having grandchildren she can hold without risking the loss of a limb, a child she can actually care for—Loki thinks he knows what it is to truly hate._

OoOoOoOoO

It is early morning, and still dark outside. He doesn't know what woke him. The memories, perhaps, or fear.

But sleep eludes him. The more so because he reaches for it.

He does not blame the mortals for forcing him to remember his little family. They are... friends, strange as it is to think of them in that light. And they played no part in his children's fate.

And yet... he shivers as he lies there.

He wants their respect, not their pity.

If he tells them everything, he thinks he knows them well enough to guess that this or, worse, contempt, are all he will receive.

He must remain strong. Pretend it doesn't _matter_ like he always has.

Only unlike everyone back home they are _asking_. They _care._ And he doesn't know how long he can maintain the shield of his composure against their relentless jabs before it shatters like so much worthless glass.


	14. Mirrors and Names

It is not yet morning, and Loki feels drained.

Barton and Romanoff have behaved exactly as he'd hoped— had _calculated—_ they would. They have a plan, of sorts. Objectives. There's nothing to respond to now. No crisis which needs to be immediately addressed. Only the days—weeks—of _waiting_ for the plan to work. The adrenaline which had coursed so freely through him last night is gone, and in its place is a weary anxiousness. It twists his stomach and makes his fingers prickle with cold sweat. Makes him toss and turn in bed trying to get comfortable. Trying to get warm. Trying to sleep.

It's entirely emotional, he knows, and natural. It doesn't make it easier to deal with.

And... he does not _like_ reflecting on the fate of his children. Or, in truth, on his own misguided attempt at vengeance.

 _Bright Baldur, lying face down in a pool of his own crimson blood and waiting for him to_ move _and everyone watching and staring and Odin and Thor looking at him and knowing—_

The covers are stifling. He throws them back and clambers out of the bed, shivering a little in the cold air.

He needs to move.

To leave the room and not dwell on everything which screams and screams inside and won't _stop_.

His movements are rapid and jerking as he dresses himself—a moss green shirt and a pair of black trousers—and wanders downstairs.

It is an hour or so before dawn. There is light outside, but it is the light of the city. The bright beams of countless cars. The relentless flashing of the mortal signs.

There's no one there, in the loungeroom.

But then, there'd been no one there last time before Stark came. Egotistical, annoying Stark who he has to remind himself is not Tony, and who is so damnably, disarmingly _trusting_ of everything he says. Stark, like Steve, who makes it so very _hard_ to behave like the monster he is because he persists in treating him as though he is _not_.

Who he doesn't _want_ , now, to see his true self.

He pads softly over to the freezer.

"Jarvis?" he asks, tentatively.

"Yes, Mr Laufeyson?"

He'd been going to ask firstly where the peppermint ice-cream had gone. Then, which activities the AI would recommend for a person who suffered from an inability to rest and desperately needed his mind to be taken of everything. What comes out instead is a snarled:

"I am _not_ Laufey's son. I am no one's son."

And where had Jarvis learned that he was?

"Shall I address you as Mr Nooneson?" Jarvis says agreeably.

"No you should not," Loki retorts, glaring vaguely upwards at nothing, "Can you not just address me as Loki?"

"Mr... _Loki_."

The distaste is almost tangible.

"... no then?"

"If it's all the same to you Mr-,"

The AI catches himself before the Laufeyson, and slowly Loki feels his anger dissipating.

"I _do_ have other titles you can use. Silvertongue. Liesmith. Wanderer. Skywalker—no _not_ Skywalker. That, I think, would have too many connotations... But any, and all, of those titles are acceptable if you really must address me by a surname."

There's a moment of pointed silence.

"Very well, Mr Silvertongue," Jarvis says, with an air someone of making the best of a bad business.

 _Victory_.

Ten minutes later, he has a bowl of ice-cream at his elbow and his iPad on the table in front of him. He does not like the bitterness of coffee. Nor, in truth, does he know how to prepare it. Instead he has a glass of water, half empty, from which he occasionally sips.

Two hours and twenty "Sherlock Holmes" adventures later, he becomes aware that his eyes are watering and he really should be doing something that isn't staring at a bright screen all day, only he doesn't know _what_.

Neither of the assassins have risen yet. He doesn't want to be here when they do.

He puts his bowl and cup in the dishwasher, and tries to think of something with which he can occupy himself elsewhere.

Something physical, perhaps, or –

His gaze slips left, across the room to the wide, tinted windows.

Freedom. Wind which would caress his face in a way he hasn't felt in months. Sights and smells and sounds entirely _new._

He shivers.

They will remember him, the would-be tyrant who toppled their peaceful world.

And if they see him, if SHIELD finds him, he is powerless.

Shaking. His hands are shaking and he hates himself for the weakness. He is _more_ than this.

Only, of course, he isn't.

He is a monster and a coward and he _can't_.

Can't bear to go outside and risk it all.

Not yet.

He drags one of Stark's chairs and settles into it by the window.

And then he slides open the glass a crack, just a crack, to allow the wind to chill his face.

It is... disappointing. No sound drifts in, high as he is, and the air smells of fumes and smog. It is not long until he grows restless. Dimly, he registers movement above him, but it's just a pair of grey pigeons. The air rustles as they flap past, bodies soaring in perfect unison.

Like dancing on wings.

It has been a long time since he did that last. Years even. But the effort would be more than enough to make him physically tired. Perhaps even enough to make him _forget_.

_But does this tower even have the facilities?_

"Jarvis? Does Stark have a room with a wooden floor and access to music?"

As it happens, he _does._

Loki isn't even surprised.

It's eight floors down and he takes the stairs, but at last he's there. He enters the room, closing the door behind him.

The air is musty and the place has that universal, unused smell of damp and dust. The floor is smooth enough to slide on in socks and the lights, when Jarvis flicks them on, show a large room, bare save for the lonely pair of chairs resting against the west wall.

And the mirrors which cover the whole left side.

_Stupid stupid idiot._

He has a few seconds to observe the thin, wide eyed stranger who stares back at him from haunted eyes. Whose hair is scruffy and curling at the tips and whose skin is a sickly white. An instant to take in the glaring brightness of the long lights reflected over and over and over.

"Mirrors," he manages to produce, "I... _please_."

And then he is pressing himself into the other wall and away from the hands which reach for him, grasping and pulling and _hurting_ —

"Mr Silvertongue?"

The voice is familiar.

He wants to leave but the door won't open and he doesn't remember how to _make_ it.

And then, an eternity later, the glaring brightness is gone and he becomes aware that he's curled up on the ground against the wall, shaking and trembling and he can't seem to _stop_.

He forces himself to look up. The left side of the room is covered by sheets. They stretch from the floor to the roof, veiling everything in a pale yellow.

"Shall I wake someone, Mr Silvertongue?"

"No!"

Loki gathers himself, running a trembling hand through his hair.

"No," he tries, more reasonably, "I was just... startled. I don't like the mirrors, and you have covered them now. A moment's weakness. No more."

"If you are sure..."

"I am."

And he _is_. He doesn't _need_ an audience for his humiliation.

There's a long pause.

"Very well, Mr Silvertongue."

He breathes out slowly.

"You, Jarvis, are a Prince among Artificial Intelligence systems."

"You know _other_ Artificial Intelligence systems?"

"... No," Loki admits, rising from the floor and steadying himself against the wall, "But... thank you."

Jarvis doesn't reply and he doesn't really expect him to.

Later, when he asks for suitable dancing music, fast and enough to make the blood stir, Jarvis asks if he means 'Epic'.

Valorous. Glorious. Bold.

Everything he isn't.

He nods.

Jarvis gives him something called ' _Two Steps From Hell - Dragon Rider'_ on a repeating cycle.

OoOoOoOoO

It's half an hour until dinner and for the first time since Loki took to joining them Tony is seriously considering not joining anyone else there.

For one thing, he isn't really hungry. For another, the algorithm is frustratingly slow to write. It's been seven hours and each time his fake SHEILD system picks them up as soon as they're in. And that's just drawing on the systems he _knows_. He's halfway under a desk, trying to see which wires it'd be possible to scramble with the right amount of magnetism, when Jarvis speaks up.

"Captain Rogers is at the door, sir."

"Tell him to go aw—no don't. He'll just hover there and _look_ at me. I suppose he can come in."

The door slides open with a hiss.

"What is it Cap?"

The incoming signals, oddly, seem more susceptible than the outgoing ones. Outliers or actual results?

A pair of legs appear in his field of vision.

And then Steve's sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him and Tony can see his face is... thoughtful. Hesitant, even.

"Are you going to be up for dinner?"

Tony plugs the analysing chip onto the wires and plugs _that_ into his detectors.

"Huh? Um, dinner... _dinner._ Yep. Eventually. Algorithm here, you know. Wires. Working."

"Electricity hmm?"

Tony snorts.

"You could say that. Actually, it's more about the orientation of—"

Steve's eyes start to glaze over, but Tony doesn't let a little thing like that stem the flow. It's always fun trying to guess how long he can keep a monologue going before the supersoldier gives up and leaves.

Ten minutes later he pauses for air.

In that crucial moment, Steve jumps in.

"Don't take this too harshly, Tony, but that's not actually what I wanted to ask you."

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Food. I'll be up. Sometime."

"Actually, Tony, I wanted to ask you about Loki."

Tony tears his gaze away from the underside of his desk and looks back at Steve.

The supersoldier looks... awkward.

"Shoot. I'm listening."

Which isn't exactly the truth, but hey, it's not like the Captain knows when he's paying attention to him and when he's not.

"It's just something Clint said, this morning before he left. He... I mean, he implied that Loki felt he was weak for not being able to stop it all. The torture, I mean. I didn't know if it was normal..."

Tony can feel himself stiffening.

_And you thought, hey, Tony's been tortured so he'll know, hmm? Just ask Tony because it's not like he minds reliving every moment in the cave with the cold and the dark and the water—_

"And I'm not really sure how to call him on it. Without triggering anything. I'm not really familiar with the whole psychology field or how to look them up, but I thought you might be more knowledgeable. Seeing as you're from this time."

Oh. Steve doesn't know.

Which is... fine. It's not in the standard files because Tony didn't really want to talk about it so of course Steve doesn't know. Only the army, and SHIELD by extension, know, and that's just because the signs were all there when they found him.

"I mean," Steve continues, "In my day, unless we trusted someone, really trusted them, we just bottled it up or broke, and I just... if there's a more effective way of dealing with it I'd like to try. Especially given that, barring another emergency, I'll be staying with him anyway. I don't want to just be avoiding him or making him feel like he should be avoiding me, just because I don't want to break him."

_Just because I don't want to break him._

"Yeah," Tony says, and winces slightly at how flat it's coming out, "Well, Google PTSD. He'll have PTSD. _Don't_ tell him you're scared he'll break. And... don't press him for details if he tries to change topics or looks like he's going to be sick—,"

The full meaning of Steve's words sinks in.

_Weak for not being able to stop it all._

"And shit, why would he blame himself? That isn't anything like what anyone should be doing to prisoners of war. I mean, we _tube feed_ serial killers when they need it. It's Polt's fault, isn't it? Why does he think it's his fault?"

Steve's lips thin.

"You mean aside from the whole trying to conquer us and failing thing? I'm not really sure. Clint said something about the sentence just involving handing him over to SHIELD. Odin saw, yes. But he didn't authorise it. And Pepper said that he'd said if he'd been stronger and smarter he could have got himself out without being tortured like that."

"That's..."

"I know."

Tony slides out from underneath the desk.

"Jarvis? Analyse the scans. And do about four hundred replicates."

"Yes, sir."

Steve is good enough to ignore his little play for time.

"I... Bruce wasn't kidding about the whole bag of cats thing. If even half those stories are true...The horse. The kids. Baldur. D'you reckon he did kill him?"

Steve's brow furrows.

"I don't know. If he did, whatever Odin did to punish him, and I hope that myth _wasn't_ true, didn't work. He despises himself, but I don't think he recognises what he did as _wrong_. That is—he said he regretted having hurt us because we helped him. I'm not sure if he'd shed a tear if the rest of the world burned. He doesn't even feel bad about the invasion."

Tony opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

"He knows it's wrong. And he hates himself for it."

"So... some form of emotional avoidance then. You know, since he _can_ care about something."

Steve doesn't exactly look like he gets it.

"Never mind."

"No. No, Tony, this is what I'm _talking_ about. In my day you either conformed, were eccentric, or you were crazy. We didn't have these labels to rationalise things. And I think... I mean, I'm not saying he'll ever conform. But I'd like him to stop hating people and to recognise that lashing out and hurting other people isn't a good way to deal with the feelings he does have."

Tony eyeballs him.

"Alright, I admit that I'd, I'd _like_ it, if he felt sorry. But if he can rationalise what his dad, what SHIELD did to him, as being deserved because he was too weak to defend himself... I mean, if he doesn't even recognise that as wrong... I'm not sure if he _can_ anymore. If he'll ever be able to."

"You're serious about this, aren't you?"

Steve flushes slightly.

"Well, yes. He's my friend. And he _trusts_ me. Even when he's scared he trusts me. And... if we ever do find a way to get that collar off I don't particularly want to face him across the other side of a battlefield. I don't want him to think that hurting people is the only thing he can do. I don't like him talking about his torture like it doesn't matter. Like _he_ doesn't. So, yes. I am serious."

Tony eyes him a bit more.

"Alright. Alright. I'll have dinner with you. And afterwards we'll look up PTSD and emotional disorders. And have our movie. And _then_ I'll get this algorithm set up."

Steve claps him on the shoulder.

"Tony? Thanks. It means a lot to me you know."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get all mushy on me."

Steve grins.

"So long, Princess. Dinner's in ten minutes- Loki's cooking."

"... Robbie can _cook?"_

Steve just shakes his head slightly. And then he's gone, trotting through the doorway and bounding up the stairs three at a time.

Tony watches him go. Then he returns to trying to get the program to work.

No point wasting his ten minutes.

OoOoOoOoO

It turns out that not only can Loki cook, he actually cooks _well_. Not that the meal is A-grade gourmet or anything, but there's rice and a steaming brown substance which turns out to be some sort of sweet, spicy chicken that is not only edible, but actually _appetising._

"Because I grew tired of your mortal takeaway."

There's none of it left over. And Tony would have to be blind to miss the pleased gratification on the demigod's face when Steve tells him it's delicious. And, to be fair, when _he_ does, albeit in slightly less fulsome language.

Yep. _Someone_ didn't receive enough positive feedback as a kid and he doubts that someone was Thor.

That evening, they watch Sherlock Holmes. When it's over, when Tony stops asking them whether they agree that Sherlock Holmes is remarkably handsome and when Loki has said his charisma is all in the _accent_ , Tony finds himself grinning. It's like... It's like having a family, only _better_ because this is more than parents who never saw him ever were.

He wonders if Loki feels the same way.


	15. An Offer He Can Refuse

As it happens, Clint and Tasha don't get back to them the next day. Or the one after. Which isn't too surprising, really—it's only in the movies that things seem to happen as quickly as Tony wants them too. He gets it. He does. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish there was something for everyone to focus on right now that wasn't _him_.

"No."

Tony is facing Steve across the bench. Loki stands off to the side, smirking a little. Bastard.

"Come on, Tony. Think of it as a teamwork building exercise."

There's nothing within easy reach to point for emphasis except an ancient, spotted banana so Tony settles for his finger.

"No can do, Cap. I wear the suit for a _reason._ I don't _need_ to learn how to fight properly without it."

"It'll keep you fit," Steve tries.

"Hey, I _am_ fit. I'm the walking _definition_ of fit. And newsflash captain, letting myself be pounded to a pulp isn't going to get me any more in shape."

"It is called _sparring_ , Stark. And if _I_ am being forced into this I fail to see why _you_ should be spared."

Tony rounds on Loki.

"Yeah? Says the resident demigod. You have super strength like _him_ ," he jerks a thumb in Steve's direction, "It'd be like trying to take on a brick wall, only one which happens to be able hit back. I'd need the suit to avoid being squashed. And operate fine in it already."

Steve rolls his eyes.

"Tony, it's just sparring. We don't have to go all out with you. But it's good to get a handle on each other's strengths and weakness. Our strategies. And it can't hurt you to learn to fight without the suit. Not every enemy will let you suit up first."

"You can't operate a _cell phone_ properly and you think _I_ need to prepare for worst-case scenarios?"

It's Steve's turn to frown.

"I can operate them.

Two very sceptical glances are shot his way.

"I _can_ ," the supersoldier insists weakly.

"Uh huh. So is your phone even charged now?"

Steve flushes.

"Look, just because I forget to charge it sometimes doesn't mean—I know I hit the green button to answer. And to check texts. I can work a phone."

"When it's _flat?"_

"I remember to turn it off most days. That conserves the battery for emergencies. It's all I really need to do."

Tony disagrees, because seriously? It doesn't stop him from saying:

"And I only _need_ to fight in the suit. Besides, you know my tactics. I don't jump on a wire for the other guy, I cut it."

"Says the man who took the missile through the portal to save New York City," Steve says drily.

"Yeah, well, when the wire _can_ be cut I cut it. And I would have died if the nuke'd detonated here too. So it's more a—," Tony struggles before finishing lamely, "I'm _not_ a self sacrificing guy. It was me and the city, or just me. Logically."

"You could have flown away and left us."

"Seriously Steve? Just left a couple of million or so people—including the team—to be nuked?"

" _Nobody's that heartless_ ," Loki murmurs, voice jarringly American.

It takes Tony a moment or two to get the reference.

"Oh no. You _didn't_ watch that one. Not without _me_."

"I was bored and I couldn't sleep. But really, Stark. There are _so_ many parallels I can draw between you and a certain llama."

Tony opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

"Very wise."

"What parallels?" Steve says blankly.

Loki's eyes light up and Tony winces.

"A fondness for red and gold. Wealthy. Narcissistic. Amusing. Immature."

"Hey!"

"I think that movie should go on the list," Steve remarks.

Tony ignores him.

"Well if I'm Kuzco, there's a certain adviser with a couple of similarities to someone in this room too."

"Oh very _good_ , Stark."

There's something hard, though, in Loki's smile. A certain self-deprecating bitterness. And Tony suddenly has the feeling he's walking over a landmine buried in a field of daisies.

The sensible course might, perhaps, be to steer the conversation into safer waters.

But still.

"Wait, you didn't turn anyone into a llama did you?"

"I did not," Loki says, "I _did_ turn Idunn into a nut once though."

"... I read that myth, actually. What sort of a nut?"

Loki eyes him for a moment.

"So characteristic of you, Stark, to focus on the _important_ facts instead of being sidetracked by mere trivialities. A walnut, since you must know. And no, there was no underlying reason. It simply happened to be the first nut that occurred to me."

"... Why?"

"It just _was."_

"Look, Tony," Steve interjects, "all banter aside, perhaps we can strike a compromise. You can teach me more about this electric stuff and I can spar with you. We _both_ get out of our comfort zones. What do you say?"

He looks so painfully earnest that Tony _almost_ feels bad saying no.

"Sorry Cap. Bruises just aren't my thing. Tell you what though, if you ever do want to learn how to do anything with the tech, I'll give you the lessons anyway."

Steve glares at him half heartedly.

"Thanks a _heap,_ Tony. I'll keep the offer in mind."

He turns to leave, headed, Tony guesses, for the gym. Loki doesn't immediately follow him. Instead, he's looking at Tony like he wants to say something, only he hasn't quite worked out how. He's... hovering. Which is, frankly, _weird._

"Robbie?" Tony says, "You planning on staring at me all day?"

Loki blinks, and then swallows once.

"Are the 'tech' lessons you mentioned open for those who are... not Steve?"

_Not used to asking other people for help, are you?_

"Depends. What do you want to know?"

" _Everything."_

There's a brief moment, where the demigod's eyes meet his, blazing with a mixture of ambition and longing. A moment where Tony's thrown straight back two decades to MIT and after and the need to know, to _understand,_ to apply, all there was and _more_ about engineering. Physics. Math. Then Loki laughs, gaze sliding to rest somewhere past Tony's shoulders, face smoothing into bland disinterest like it doesn't _matter_ to him one way or the other what Tony's answer is. Like he genuinely... doesn't care.

"Well?" Loki says, too lightly.

_What did they say to you, buddy, when you did ask, to make you that guarded?_

"You know what?" Tony says, abruptly. "Join me in the workshop when you can. I'll teach you the stuff while I'm working out your algorithm."

Loki sucks in a soft breath.

"You— mean that?"

"Sure I do," Tony says, because hey, why not? If he can become a thermonuclear astrophysics expert in one night, Loki can master computing and science in a week. Seems smart enough. "Find me later. Assuming you make it out of the Colosseum alive, that is. And unpulverised, because bleeding on the circuitry? That would be a no. Yes?"

He's rewarded with a smile. A proper, _genuine_ one which crunches up that thin, pale face in all the right places and reaches straight into the clever eyes.

"I'll be there," Loki says.

Then he's gone, striding downstairs to fight with Steve. Tony pours himself another coffee and gives himself a mental pat on the back for avoiding a week's worth of unnecessary contusions, and tries not to think about how fake most of the demigod's smiles suddenly seem when they're compared to _that_ one.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki enters the gym a few minutes behind the supersoldier.

Steve is already warming up, punching the empty air with padded fists. Loki takes a moment to pull on his Captain America T-Shirt. In retrospect, this is not, perhaps, wise. He _likes_ the T-shirt, and he's not sure how passionate Steve gets when wrestling. If he has even half of Thor's enthusiasm, this shirt will not be salvageable. Still. There are others, probably, where this one came from. Potts can always buy him another.

He pulls on the strips of cloth he assumes are meant to protect his knuckles.

"I've been meaning to ask," Steve says, watching him, "How have you been sleeping?"

He can _feel_ himself stiffening.

"Fine," he lies shortly.

"Because ... I'm here, you know. If you want to talk about anything. Anything at all."

"Yes, so you've said. Multiple times. And I neither want nor need to talk about my nonexistent issues."

Steve looks like he'd like to say more. Loki cuts him off with a curt:

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," Steve admits, dropping the issue with visible reluctance, "But... you don't want to, I don't know, do stretches or something first? Just so you don't pull anything?"

"I have been sparring with Thor, Thor's little quartet, and my—and Odin's sons for _years_. Believe me when I assure you that I am unlikely to strain _anything_ with you _."_

Which is, perhaps, not the truth. But with luck it will turn out to be true enough to satisfy the supersoldier.

"If you say so. You do pack quite a punch, if I recall. Assuming that wasn't the staff."

"It was me," he confirms, unbending a little.

He really _shouldn't_ be as flattered as he is to be complimented about his strength. Only, when one has lived in a place like Asgard it is hard not to fit into _someone's_ shadow. Hard to avoid being told one should try harder. Be stronger. Be more honourable. Be plain _more_ than the treacherous little snake of a Jotun cuckoo one never knew oneself to be.

It's... pleasant.

And then Steve is ploughing forwards, fists blazing, and Loki forces his body to relax into the practiced rhythm that is his favourite sparring form. Graceful. Poised. Swift as the wind and frustratingly unhittable.

It works best with daggers from a distance, true, but he's nothing if not adaptable.

He dances to the side as Steve rushes on and then throws himself downward as the supersoldier spins, impossibly fast, following the motion. He's two steps away when he completes the motion and twists to his feet. And then they're circling each other, probing carefully for weaknesses. Analysing them.

In a way, the motions make him forget.

Like dancing.

A long, long dance whose steps he has performed to so often that they are ingrained in every last muscle. Every wasted limb.

"I've never really done this before, you know."

"Oh? The sparring?" Loki says, sounding about as sceptical as he feels.

True, Steve looks like he has haphazardly mashed about six different styles together into a graceless whole. But he does not scream of inexperience, exactly.

"Sort of. I _have_ sparred and fought. But either I was too weak or I was too strong, you know? There was never really anyone to practice with who was at my level."

He feels something twist sharply inside.

And then Steve's stepping forward again and aiming blow after rapid, unpredictable blow. The supersoldier is strong. Not, perhaps, stronger than Loki _would_ be if he had full access to his magic, or if he were more fully healed. But certainly stronger _now._

The fact that he doesn't land a single hit in that onslaught is largely based on two factors.

The first is Loki's skill, born of centuries of sparring with Thor.

The second is Steve's habit of _looking_ wherever he wants to strike before he does so. Quick glances at the chest or arms followed by the darting blows. It is not, perhaps, an issue when fighting those whose reflexes are laughably slower than his own. Nor when he has his shield. But it is certainly an issue _here._

Loki debates telling him about his weakness, but really, where would the fun be in that?

He waits until Steve's eyes have flicked towards his chest, waits until the arms are in motion, and then dances to the side, crouching fluidly underneath the soldier's reflexive, sweeping kick, and lands his first, solid blow straight in the supersoldier's side.

"Oof," Steve says, staggering slightly.

Loki allows a thin smile to curl his lips upwards.

And then they're back to circling warily.

Mentally, Loki allows that Stark probably had grounds for his refusal to participate.

It's ten minutes before Steve lands his first blow. Primarily because Loki miscalculated, and a kick which was _supposed_ to land in the small of the supersoldier's back got intercepted. And apparently, Steve has no qualms about using his hold on a leg to twist his opponent to the ground.

Not after having taken three hits already.

If this were a contest, Loki would have tried whimpering, and hoped to manipulate Steve's pity to provide himself an opening. But there is no contest here. No one watching save Jarvis. Nothing to gain.

He rolls to his feet, ignoring the bruising blossoming across his back.

He has had far, far worse than this.

"You are not entirely devoid of skill," he concedes.

"Thanks."

"Though you should, perhaps, work on your _style_."

"Oh? What's wrong with my style?"

"Primarily? You have none."

"I know lots of forms," Steve retorts.

"A mismatched conglomeration of half a dozen or so forms does not make you a stronger fighter. It does not give you style."

"Why not?"

"Because you do not draw on the—,"

And then Steve's advancing again and Loki throws himself backwards just in time to avoid the roundhouse kick aimed straight at his chin. Monologuing always has been his weakness.

Half an hour later, they're both panting and Steve has suggested a break. Loki is bruised, sore and tired. Steve is just the first two, he thinks, because the supersoldier retains the spring in his step despite sporting a split lip and a black eye.

He himself has more of a trudge.

Loki tugs off his bloodied-but-intact T-shirt and pulls on his proper dress shirt

"So, where did you learn to fight like that?" Steve says, following suit.

Loki's weary enough, unguarded enough, to answer honestly.

"Asgard. The Allfather used to... I thought he'd _see_ me if I learned to fight well. Instead of just the magic. Silly, isn't it? He was the king, so of course he had other concerns."

Steve's lips thin.

"It wasn't so bad. They used to tell me I was almost a true warrior when I won."

He'd be more concerned about the soldier's pointed silence if it weren't for the haze of exhaustion which wraps about him like a cloak. Which makes it hard to focus. Hard to think.

"Loki. Are you okay?"

And which is rapidly dissipating in the cold wind of Steve's inquiries. He turns to wash his hands off in the sink.

"Loki? Talk to me. Please."

"I _do_ talk to you. Why won't you _believe_ me when I say I am fine?"

"Loki, you have shadows under your eyes the size of teaspoons. And they aren't fading. It isn't a sign of someone who is sleeping well. And you admitted as much to Tony forty minutes ago. You aren't- you don't have to _do_ this alone."

_Why do you even care?_

"Loki?"

Steve is softer now. More tentative.

Loki finds himself wondering what his face looks like.

"I'm fine," he insists, and then relents enough to add, "Truly. I... dream sometimes. That is all."

"What about?"

"I don't remember them," Loki says flatly.

It's half true. It is the hours _after_ he wakes which he fills with his pointless remembrances.

"I... look, I'm probably not. I mean, you probably had other people to talk to back home and I'm not trying to replace them. I just... If there's anything I can _do,_ tell me."

"I will," he promises.

It isn't even a lie. There is nothing, really, that anyone can do that they are not doing already.

SHIELD. Odin. His family.

The former is... under control.

The latter two no one can fix.

Steve doesn't stop him when he slips out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Stark spins around on his swivel chair when Loki slips into the workshop.

"Whoa Robbie, what happened to your _face?"_

Loki raises an eyebrow.

"Steve."

"... I am _never_ sparring with you two. You know that?"

Despite himself, Loki grins.

"The chances of your doing so were as slim as those of a two-year-old killing a bilchsteim anyway."

Tony looks blank.

Loki suppresses a sigh.

"Computers, Stark. Science," he prods.

He's _mostly_ unpulverised, isn't he?

Twenty minutes later, he's lost in a world of symbols and numbers and magnets and circuits. It's another four hours before they emerge from the workshop.


	16. Breaking Security and a Cracked Shell

"And we're _in_."

It's been three days since Loki's impromptu lessons started. It took two for the demigod to go from eager absorption of every scrap of information he got to lounging comfortably at Tony's elbow actively suggesting ideas. Admittedly not always _good_ ones, but they're getting better, Tony thinks. At least he isn't suggesting GOTO's as a fix all anymore.

First things first though.

"Did you detect us, Jarvis?"

"I did indeed detect you, sir," Jarvis says repressively.

Ouch for them. But hey, it's progress. They _are_ actually consistently breaking down Jarvis's SHIELD system simulator now, even if the AI does assure them it's about as subtle as smashing eggshells with a sledgehammer.

"Better or _worse_ than try four?"

"Better, sir," Jarvis assures him, "I could only feel three of my vital systems being overloaded this time."

Tony suppresses a wince.

"Not too bad. Give it another week, maybe, and it'll be perfect."

Loki frowns.

"We are moving too -,"

"-don't you say slowly Robbie. These things are artwork."

" _Slow_ works of art."

"You can't rush art."

"... tell me that _wasn't_ Toy Story?"

Tony waggles a pen at him.

"Couldn't resist. Corny quotes aside though, we haven't even _got_ any info from Clint and Tasha yet. I'd say we had plenty of time."

"That is irrelevant. They could contact us today. This hour even. And I wish for us to be able to do _more_ than tell them we will finish it in a week."

"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. We'll be fine. We just need to properly exploit the bugs we _know_ exist in their system, that's all."

"So you say."

"I do say. And of the two of us, who has been hacking SHIELD for _years_ and who has been trying for two _days_?"

The demigod is silent.

" _Exactly_."

"Well then why are you not _in_ yet if you have such experience?"

"Hey, I _am_ in, oh ye of little faith. Just not _undetected_. I can get you in anytime you want if being caught isn't an issue."

Loki considers that for a bit.

"You have a point. I suppose we may yet get it done in time. But I—," he breaks off, fingering his collar absently.

Tony lets him rub away and tries not to think too hard about Loki screaming silently on the floor. He busies himself with studying SHIELD's code instead. There has to be _something_ there he's missed.

"My apologies, Stark. It is just... I feel anxious sometimes. It makes it easier to be—The feeling _will_ fade."

"Yeah. It will."

Because he _knows_ it's not like saying it doesn't need to be there will make it go away.

Loki looks at him then.

Genuinely looks at him, rather than straight through him.

"I forget, sometimes, that you know too."

Tony shrugs.

"Yep. Well. Ancient history and all that."

Loki nods. He doesn't pursue the issue, and for that Tony's grateful. Instead, he turns back to his own little screen.

"What are you doing? I thought you were complaining about lost time?"

The demigod's eyes flick upwards.

"I was. But it is now two and you mentioned you were planning to have lunch at twelve. I assumed you would have a break."

 _Two_?

"Hey Jarvis, what's the time?"

"Two o'seven Sir."

" _Seven past_? And you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I was busy being hacked into, sir," Jarvis says primly.

Tony opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

"Okay. Fair enough. But what are _you_ doing, Robbie?"

"I am reading," Loki says.

Which is really just _mean._ Tony sidles around to see. Loki seems to be looking at a page with words like 'biocatalysts', 'DNA' and 'covalent bonding'.

"Oh no. No, you're not onto the marshmallow sciences are you?"

The demigod stiffens.

"Advanced physics is child's play, and I learned your mathematics in Asgard years ago. It is only your _applications_ which are novel enough to confuse me. And these. If these turn Banner into the Hulk they are more than worth my time."

"... I'm pretty sure it's gamma radiation which did that."

"Yes, but it did that by altering this 'DNA'. Correct?"

"Um. Not too sure the Hulk can really be termed DNA _alteration_ Robbie. He's big, green and a totally different _guy_ to Bruce."

"DNA, Stark. Just like the Fantastic Four. Just like the X-men. Or at least, that's what their files say."

"How did _you_ get their files?"

"Jarvis," Loki says succinctly.

 _Ah_.

"Robbie? Don't ever tell them you got the stuff from me."

Loki just grins and goes back to reading... whatever it is he is reading, which is probably a lot more interesting than Tony thinks it is, but still...

"Hey, you interested in going out at all?" he blurts out.

The demigod doesn't look up.

"Not really, Stark. I'm afraid being arrested and mobbed doesn't really agree with my constitution."

"Yeah, yeah. But if you _could?_ Because we could stick you in a wig or something. Or cut your hair. And honestly, even now I don't think anyone would pick you for Kneel-mortal-scum-Loki."

The demigod's lips thin dangerously.

"Oh? And why is that?"

Tony mentally notes that this is a sensitive issue.

"No horns. It's all in the horns, Robbie. That and the leather. Besides, it's _New York_. You'd have to pull a Giselle for anyone to notice you."

"Tempting, Stark. But I think not. There are too many Nathaniel's looking for me."

"Weirdly likable traitors?"

"People who can _think_ and _see,_ Stark."

Tony sighs.

"Alright, alright. But if you ever do want out, Pepper tells me there's a great hairdresser in Hadley St."

"I'll keep your offer in mind."

Tony gives himself brownie points for effort.

"Well, I'm off for lunch. Jarvis, scan the SHIELD simulation system again would you? There has to be _some_ bug there I've missed. You coming up, Robbie?"

"Later."

When he returns around three,Tony isn't surprised to find the demigod still down there. Silently, he plonks a platter of waffles in front of him. Then he goes back to writing the algorithm.

And tries not to grin when he catches the vacant-eyed demigod absently stretching a hand towards the plate.

OoOoOoOoO

In the end, it isn't the Agent's who get back to them first.

It's Pepper.

She comes over late on Saturday night bearing pasta sauce, a sheaf of paperwork, and the information that the regulations regarding POW's do not allow what SHIELD did.

"Because the both USA and the UN ratified the Geneva Conventions."

"But Asgard has no treaties with Midgard," Loki objects between forkfuls, "We haven't had dealings with this realm for centuries. Barring Thor's exile, of course, and that hardly counts."

"Question: Why didn't Thor count?"

"Because the Allfather _exiled_ him."

"Uh huh..."

Loki rolls his eyes.

"He was no longer of Asgard. It was like putting a child in a corner. Only time out of the Aesir room in the mortal corner. It should have been _years_ before Thor was able to return, if at all. He needed to prove that he was 'worthy' of Mjolnir before he could come home. Personally, I suspect there was an exit clause for his death. No one learns _true_ humility in just three days."

He sounds as though he's caught between 'jealous' and 'peeved'.

"Seconding that one," Tony says, "Though he seemed nice-slash-friendly enough when we met him. Aside from the whole leveling the park incident."

The demigod shrugs.

"Well. He is easy enough to love when he likes you. It is when he _doesn't_ that his blunt honesty can be undiplomatic. That and when he does not respect you."

"If you say so. I have to ask though, since we're on the topic of his general worth, did he know? About your sentence, I mean? Because he's an asshole if he did. If not I'm prepared to leave him tagged as a likable jock."

Loki avoids his eyes.

"Tony?" Pepper says, "The actual issue?"

 _Right_.

"Geneva Convention. Broken," Tony manages to dredge up.

"Yes," Pepper says, "And Loki comes under it. The government is responsible for him as a prisoner and even if Asgard isn't bound by the treaty, as members of the Convention _we_ are. They had a duty to make sure he wasn't tortured."

Loki frowns suddenly.

"You _all_ object to torture here? Not just the 'Avengers'?"

"Yes. We do," Steve says, "It isn't right to hurt those who can't defend themselves. It's bullying."

"What if they _deserve_ it?"

"No one deserves torture," Steve insists.

"Even if they are destined to destroy whole worlds? Monsters, fated to end the lives of millions?"

The demigod's voice is curiously flat.

But then, Tony's read the myths. And so has Steve.

_Fenris or you?_

"Even then. We don't believe in predestination here. Everyone has a choice. It's why we have hope. You can't _know_ someone is going to destroy worlds until they do, and they shouldn't be punished until then."

"Self fulfilling prophesies and all that. Crucio. Voldemort," Tony adds.

Loki looks blank.

Tony stares at him in dawning horror.

"You haven't... Harry Potter. You need to read 'em. You really do. They have _magic_."

"I—oh very well. I will add them to my list."

"You won't regret it. Except maybe the epilogue."

" _Tony_."

"Right. The issue. Can I ask, just so we're all on the same page cultural understanding-wise, is Asgard okay with torture?"

Loki's lips thin.

The glance he sends at Pepper is almost apologetic.

"Yes and no. Mostly we kill our enemies. _If_ they cannot be killed, than yes, torture is typically deemed a suitable substitute. Though never—," Loki breaks off, swallowing.

"What?" Tony prods.

The demigod doesn't answer.

After a moment's thought and a look from Pepper, Tony decides not to push him.

"Right. So I like you Robbie, and I'm glad you _weren't,_ just so we're clear. But _why_ weren't you taken back to Asgard? You know, execution. As opposed to—? No offense."

Loki lets him squirm for a bit.

"In truth, Stark, I do not know. I imagine it is because my daughter rules the dead. Possibly the Allfather thought my time there would be both pleasant and short. Hela is allowed to return her dead to life you see. Hardly, you will agree, in the nature of a _punishment."_

"Whoa whoa whoa. You mean the myths are _real_? Your daughter, _Hela_ , rules the _dead_?"

"I have yet to read your myths, to be honest. But certainly she rules _our_ dead. Those unworthy of Valhalla, anyway—those that did not die in battle or by their own hand."

Tony whistles.

"That's cool. Ruling the dead I mean. Can you visit them?"

"She doesn't encourage it."

Pepper and Steve look vaguely doubtful.

"You mean..." Steve hesitates, "You're _encouraged_ to commit suicide?"

"As an alternative to dying of something so mundane as old age or sickness? As an alternative to—to being made _nothing_? Of course. Any _true_ warrior wouldn't even need to be told he should do so."

"What do you mean, being made nothing?" Tony asks, suddenly suspicious.

Loki shrugs.

"Robbie?"

"Tony."

"What?"

And then Loki starting at the tabletop and speaking in a tight, small voice and all Tony wants to do suddenly is tell him to _stop_.

"I mean... you all saw the footage. I couldn't _stop anything_. A true warrior—a true Aesir—would have _died_ before he allowed anyone to touch him like that. To make him _worthless_. And I—couldn't. Because I'm _not."_

There's a moment of silence.

And then Loki rises abruptly from the table.

"If you will excuse me."

He doesn't run exactly. But Tony thinks he probably _will_ just as soon as he's safely out of sight.

He makes to follow.

"Let him go Tony," Pepper says before he can, "Just... give him a moment."

And Tony, feeling like the world's biggest jerk, does.

OoOoOoOoO

When Steve enters half an hour later, everything smashable is in pieces on the floor.

Loki is curled up on the bed, legs tucked up beneath his chin.

He is facing the wall.

"I never liked that dinner set," Steve says, picking his way over through the shards.

It is—was—a delicate porcelain one which had to have belonged to someone's grandmother. Maybe Tony's. Steve's not sure. There are—were—golden retrievers doing everything from swimming to leaping through hoops on the cups.

Twenty seconds later, Steve makes it through and perches cautiously on the edge of the bed.

"Go away."

There's a part of him that wants to do just that. Which _will_ make him leave, if it's upsetting Loki too much. There's a bigger part, looking at the wreckage on the floor, which just wants to be sure the trickster will be okay.

"For what it's worth, Loki, I'm glad you didn't die."

No response.

They stay there for a few minutes and Steve wonders if he'll get a bloodied nose if he reaches out to touch the rigid back. He decides he'll risk it. It's warm and a little damp. Some form of exercise probably.

Loki doesn't tell him to stop.

After about ten more silent minutes the demigod says:

"Do you think there's a reason he—I mean, to leave me with the humans I wronged is fair. But did I deserve _that?"_

There's no need to define he or that.

"You didn't deserve it," Steve says, and he aches everywhere inside suddenly, "Even when you were heading the invasion and had killed Coulson we didn't think you deserved that."

The dark head turns and he's looking into those lost, lost eyes.

"No one does."

The words are steady and they hang in the air between them.

Loki's face goes tellingly blank.

"You're not a monster," Steve says, because he _knows_ that expression.

Startled amusement flickers across the pale face.

"You're unfairly perceptive, Steve."

"To be fair, you are my friend," Steve says, and something flickers deep within the green eyes that he can't decipher, "And you're not a monster. Or if you are you're an Abominable Snowman or Night Fury."

"Night Fury hmm?"

He doesn't appear to dislike the idea.

Steve allows himself to feel tentative relief.

And then Loki is speaking again.

"I always liked the end, where his father saves him. Toothless. Cares for his son anyway. All of him. Only my... he and Thor didn't care enough to rescue me when I drowned."

Loki doesn't sound bitter.

Just resigned.

Steve rubs his back gently.

There's a moment of silence. Then:

"We did," he says, tentatively.

"You did," Loki agrees, mouth curving into a bittersweet smile. His voice is slurring a little.

He's asleep soon after.

Steve drags the spare blanket over him before he leaves, avoiding the shards.


	17. Revenge

There are, Loki supposes, benefits to behaving like a spoiled child. To behaving like _Thor_.

For one thing, Potts is _very_ considerate when he emerges from his room the next day. It's late by the time he does so—he doesn't want to step on the shards so he sweeps them up into the trashcan first, and for some odd reason he managed to sleep _well_ last night—but despite this Potts hasn't left for work.

It takes him longer than it probably should to remember that it is a Sunday.

She looks up when he enters the loungeroom and for the first time since he met her there's no trace of wariness mixed with her concern. Just a hint of something he can't quite decipher. Pity perhaps.

And then she smiles at him over her paperwork and tells him that there are three new cartons of peppermint chocolate chip ice-cream in the freezer if he's interested.

Which is... nice.

He hadn't realised anyone had actually noticed his preferences.

She's still talking and he forces himself to pay attention.

"... eating enough, Loki? Because if there are other foods you like we can get them delivered here."

He raises an eyebrow at her.

But she's looking at him like Eir used to look at him when he'd landed in the halls of healing again, and involuntarily he softens.

"I am eating well. Stark keeps his fridge and pantry well stocked."

"Oh. Well. Good."

Awkward. But more so for her than him, he thinks, which is a pleasant change. He debates, briefly, nibbling at a single apple and telling her it is enough to make him full, just to see her face. He is hungry though, so in the end he doesn't.

He makes himself a platter of waffles, heaps them with raspberries and chocolate sauce, and makes his way over to the table. Then he pulls out his iPad.

He has, perhaps, ten minutes of silence. Then:

"You like sweet things," she observes, not quite questioning.

Dragging himself up from the murky depths of 'helixes' and 'gene coding', he says:

"We favour a plainer fare in Asgard. Roast meads, honey, and mead. And apples. Most of your meals are a pleasant change."

She nods and he resubmerges.

He's sopping up the chocolate sauce which has dribbled onto the plate with the last of his fruit when it occurs to him that no one else has made an appearance. Which isn't disturbing so much as just... odd. Usually someone, either Stark or Steve, will appear before he has finished eating to wish him good morning, however briefly.

But then, possibly that is because it is ten now and he usually eats around seven. Perhaps they have just finished.

"Jarvis? Where are Stark and Steve?"

"Captain Rogers is out jogging, I believe, Mr Silvertongue. Mr Stark is inside his workshop. I believe he said he had found an exploitable flaw in SHIELD's programming."

 _Exploitable flaw._ _SHIELD_.

Loki pushes his plate away and rises from the table.

"And no one _told_ me?"

"Captain Rogers and Mr Stark were in agreement that you needed your rest."

This, upon consideration, is probably fair.

Which doesn't mean he likes it.

"Well, why did _you_ not tell me, Potts? I have been up for _half an hour_."

"You were eating. And you can call me Pepper, Loki. I haven't been called just 'Potts' since college."

"I can _eat_ at any time. Pepper," he adds grudgingly.

She's _not_ Pepper. Not yet.

"But do you? Because I don't know what you normally eat but isn't considered _healthy_ here to live on waffles for breakfast and ice-cream midnight snacks. They're comfort foods."

"I have dinner. Pasta. Chicken. Hamburgers," he bites out.

"Hamburgers aren't good for you either."

"Do you _really_ think an excess of fatty sustenance is a problem for me?"

"It's a question of the _right_ fats. And I've been telling Tony for years, high energy foods may give you a, a 'kick', but they don't _sustain_ you. And you are feeding muscles too. You are healing."

Loki eyes her for a moment.

"You sound like Snotra. I'm perfectly capable of choosing my own diet."

_"Snotra?"_

"Our tutor, when we were young. An oppressively virtuous woman. She used to sit us down and tell us we should be _mindful_ _of our decisions, and ever wary of their consequences_ ," Loki says, in a credible imitation of his robust mentor, "I always wanted to do _exactly_ what she'd told me not to after her lectures. Thor too."

"And did you?" Potts says drily.

"Most of the time," Loki admits, "We were neither of us model children. Thor because it was not in keeping with his pride. Me because even then I disliked being told what to do. Baldur was her favourite, I think. He used to tell her—he was only a few decades old you understand— that to him she was as beautiful as Freya."

She nods as though she knows what he means. And perhaps she does.

"He sounds like quite the little charmer."

"He was. Everyone loved him, I think. Or almost. People used to say he could make them feel like they were the reason the sun shone just by smiling at them. And-,"

_Blood. Falling. Darkness. Pain._

"Loki?"

He becomes aware, suddenly, that he has fallen silent. He gathers himself before saying:

"It is just... he is with Hela now."

"It's never easy when someone you love passes away," she says with quick sympathy.

Only, he _hadn't_ loved Baldur. He hadn't meant for him to die but he hadn't been _sorry_. Not sorry _enough,_ anyway. Baldur who just smiled and laughed and did _nothing_ to earn _anything_ and had it all _anyway_ —but everyone else had loved him.

Another reason he should, perhaps, have known he was a monster long ago.

He nods anyway and she doesn't pursue the matter.

Instead she says:

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't really tell you what to eat. Too used to living with Tony I guess. If it's any consolation, we only found out what Tony had done an hour or so ago. He told Steve when he popped down with a pizza for him this morning before he left—Tony's been up most of the night."

Her tone implies that she feels Stark, too, needs his rest.

Briefly, Loki wonders if the mortal was kept awake on his account. He should probably feel guilty, he thinks. Instead he finds himself both touched and pleased. If Stark truly has found an untraceable way into SHIELD... well, he would throw _ten_ such fits for that result.

For the first time since he arrived, he doesn't put his plate in the dishwasher as he deserts the room.

He arrives at the workshop five minutes later.

OoOoOoOoO

Jarvis opens the doors for him as he approaches. For a short, foolish instant, right before the glass doors start sliding, he feels like doing a Jedi hand-motion just _because._

Then he's walking into the lab with purposeful strides, squinting about for Stark.

"That you, Robbie?" says a disembodied voice.

It's Stark's and it's coming, he thinks, from around the other side of the workshop bench and a stack of shelves.

He edges through them, past a haphazardly stacked tower of boxes and what looks to be a half finished robot. Past the red and yellow remains of old suits. And then he's _through_ and he can see the mortal, seated on a stool and surrounded by tools, a half empty pizza box, and a pile of scraps.

"Stark."

The mortal looks like _he_ does when he's in the grip of an obsession—some new magic to be mastered, perhaps, or a plot to get right. His eyes are fever bright and his face is pale, drawn by unheeded weariness.

Loki suddenly suspects that by 'most of the night' Potts might have meant Stark has not been to bed at all. He does feel a slight pang then.

"They tell you the news Robbie?"

Stark's tone is one of suppressed excitement, and his words are slurred just a bit.

"They said—Jarvis and Potts—that you are in?"

It's half statement, half question. Even now he can barely bring himself to believe something supposed to take a week can be done so _soon_.

Stark grins.

"You better believe it buddy. Sort of," he amends.

_Sort of?_

"Explain."

"I mean," the genius says, "I can get us in if we compromise one of the lesser security systems. Not checked often going by previous data we've got. And you'd have to be _me_ to catch onto the fact that it could be a major security breech even if you did know it had gone."

Loki ruthlessly crushes his budding hope.

"And is it possible to compromise it? From _here?"_

"No," Stark concedes, "But from SHIELD's mainframe? Yep. And we know _exactly_ where to go to get there. I was thinking of getting Tasha to do the overload, seeing as she's there and all. Or Clint. When they _do_ call us. Less suspicious."

 _"_ Your plan has merit," Loki allows.

He seats himself and reaches for a slice of the pizza.

"Supreme," Stark supplies, "No mushrooms."

Loki is already biting into his wedge. He would reply, only it would be undignified to do so while chewing so he doesn't.

"Um, Robbie. About last night. I know I'm not always the most tactful guy ever...," Stark starts.

He waves a dismissive hand at the mortal. Then he focuses on chewing and swallowing the explosive mixture of delicious _flavour_. He decides, taking his second mouthful, that he _likes_ this food.

"Just, yeah. I'm not really great with apologies or anything, so just. Tell me. You know, if I'm pushing too much. Because I won't _know_. Should maybe, but don't."

He toys with continued silence.

But he likes Stark. And Stark did stay up all night working to get the program right for him. He unbends, offering the genius a crooked smile.

"It was not your fault. The memories are fresh now, that is all. They resurface when I think too much. When I have killed the ones who did this to me—when I have taken my dagger and plunged it through their hearts and _laughed_ at them while they scream and scream, knowing that _nothing_ they can do will ever be enough to change _anything_ —when I have made them _pay_ , I will be content."

But not safe. Never safe.

And he wonders, remembering the warm hand on his back, remembering the gentle circles which made everything sort of _fade_ —wonders why some part of him would swap all the hatred and vengeance for an eternity of feeling _that_.

Stark is looking conflicted.

"Not saying I don't understand the desire, but... revenge killing isn't really a thing we _do_ to criminals here."

Loki stiffens.

"You would deny me the right to avenge myself?" he hisses.

_Am I truly so low that you will not even allow me that?_

Stark rakes a greasy hand through his hair.

"I'm just saying it's not how we do things here."

He can feel himself losing control. Can _feel_ the hatred bubbling up.

 _"You_ killed those who tortured you. _You_ destroyed them and shot them and _why can't I?"_

Double standards.

There are _always_ double standards. Standards which make it okay for _Odin_ to lie and not him. Okay to be unable to defy fate for _Fenris_ but to try one's best for Baldur. Okay for Thor to get three days with Foster for invading and slaughtering hundreds on Jotunheim and for he, Loki, to get _this_ for doing the same to Midgard.

He _loathes_ them and no one will explain why they're there.

Only Stark _is_ trying, apparently.

"Robbie. It's not— where the _hell_ is Steve when I need him? Look, I killed the people I needed to to escape. I didn't just go after the ones who... And I'm not saying there wasn't a part of me that liked it but it wasn't a part of me I'm proud of. I kill to defend other people and myself and I'm _not_ saying you can't do that. Just that cold bloodedly hunting someone down for revenge is considered wrong."

" _Why_?"

"Because you're robbing them of the chance to become a better person. Because you don't have both sides of the story and you don't _know_ what makes them do what they do. Because once everyone starts chasing revenge, chaos happens pretty fast. We have states which enforce the death penalty. But it's for the court's to decide. Not you. Not me. Not unless they're doing something like shooting or torture when you find them and then no one will fault you for acting."

Slowly, slowly, he can feel himself unclenching.

He reaches for another slice of pizza, trying to keep his hands steady.

"Why should I rely on your government? Did they not _allow_ what SHIELD did?"

"Look, if the government does say what happened to you was fine—if SHIELD does, when we've gotten to the bottom of this— I'll have your back with the suit and Pepper'll be releasing more press releases about what happened than the Empire has Stormtroopers."

Loki snorts.

"But I don't think they _will_ condone it. I think they'll think it sucked. And if they were blindsided with this there's questions they probably need to ask and regulations they have in place to deal with it. Just... think about it. It's not unnatural to want revenge. It's what you _do_ with the feelings that matters."

Loki chews on his second wedge.

There's a moment of silence, and then he makes himself swallow. Illogical as it is, he _understands_ dimly now.

It isn't about double standards. Just... second chances. And order.

That doesn't mean he _won't_ slaughter them anyway. He is a monster after all; there's no reason, really, why he should hold himself to a higher standard of behaviour than _them._ But still.

"How do you _do_ it, Stark?," he blurts out, then clarifies, "Refrain from hurting everyone else the way they hurt or _let_ others hurt you?"

The mortal takes a slice of pizza.

It's a long time before he replies. Eventually though, he shrugs.

"My Logic? I had two choices. Figuring I'd been hurt so why should anyone else's lives be any better? Or deciding that I didn't want anyone else to have to go through what I went through because I had the power to stop it. I chose option number two. Not saying that makes me the better man, exactly—they used to call me the Merchant of Death for a reason, you know. I was even proud of it. People still hate me for that. But nothing I do will erase the past. So I figured I might as well pick the path I wanted to take now, since what I do _now_ is the only thing I _can_ change."

"Stark—,"

"—I know, I know. I suck at pep talks. Leave it to Steve."

It's not his best quip, but Loki smiles anyway.

"Stark... I cannot _promise_ I will not kill them all. I am not used to _not_ doing what I want. But... thank you. _"_

_For saying there is a monster in you, too. For saying even so you have a choice._

_For listening._

"... I'm going to pretend that was reassuring, Robbie. And yeah. You're welcome for— whatever you're thanking me for. I like you so I'd do it again, the whole rescue thing, just so you know. And I'm glad you didn't die in the cell too. Not that I looked at the feed of you chatting to Steve or anything. Which, I feel like we need to stop this, actually, because this is way to much D&M for me this late."

Loki laughs. He feels—

He does not know what he feels.

He thinks, though, that it is then that he gives up the long, long battle to think of Tony as 'Stark'.

OoOoOoOoO

When Jarvis tells him there's someone at the door, Loki assumes it's Steve.

In retrospect, it was a bad idea not to check.

At the time though, it seems like the most logical decision in the world to just tell Jarvis to let them in and send them up. After all, Tony's asleep in bed now and Pepper's doing paperwork three stories up so who else can it be at twelve o'clock?

Jarvis would have told him if it had been SHIELD. And he doesn't acknowledge that fans or the press are there.

When he hears the footsteps sounding at the door he rises and to open it.

He intends to ask how Steve's jog went.

Whether he rescued any helpless kittens.

Whether he has eaten yet.

When he opens the door though, his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth.

Because it _isn't_ Steve.

It's _Banner_.


	18. Cold Wars and Scotch

Time slows to a crawl as they stand there, gazes locked across the doorway, and each heartbeat stretches onwards to infinity.

The doors slides—he knows that. _Knows_ he won't be able to slam it in time before the mortal in front of him wedges a foot in the gap or darts through or does _something_ to stop him.

Something big and angry and _green._

And so Loki stares at Banner.

The mortal stares back .

It's almost _funny_ how impotent they must both look and he _knows_ it's a bad sign that he feels a strange urge to laugh.

To laugh and laugh and not _stop_ until there's nothing left in him to laugh _with._ He resists it because it's the same madness which gripped him in that first real fight with Thor and in his cell and he doesn't _want_ to be back in that place of nightmares and bitter shadow.

"Jarvis, wake Stark. _Now_. If you don't mind."

_Before my innards get liquified._

Banner's eyes narrow.

And then Jarvis is talking, steady and _there._

"Yes, Mr Silvertongue. Should I tell Ms Potts-?"

"No."

Because he _needs_ Tony.

Because if Banner hulks, and he doesn't really see why he _shouldn't,_ Tony has a suit.

Potts does not. And he doesn't think Tony will forgive him if he calls her down here and something happens to her.

"No," he says again, "Thank you Jarvis, but just... Tony."

Something goes out of Banner's eyes then. A hardness or a fear. Or maybe both; they are not so different, he knows. The pinpricks of green are fading from the doctor's eyes too now and there's a hint of a self-effacing smile on his face.

Loki doesn't trust him. He doesn't trust his smiles either and his skin crawls.

"I'm not really sure I'd put _you_ down as part of a stress free environment," Banner says.

_Stress free environment?_

Loki blinks at him stupidly.

"I'm sorry?"

Banner ignores that.

"And I thought you were taken back to Asgard."

Loki peers at him carefully.

Confusing or not, his words aren't... hostile.

He wonders _why._

And now that he actually looks, he notes that there are dark shadows under Banner's eyes. And his face has the haunted cast to it Loki normally associates with the mothers of sons under his command. First when their children left and later, after Asgard's victories, when he'd told them their children were not coming home. A sort of pinched, resigned weariness which probably hurt anyone who knew them _before_ to see.

He wonders if it's always been there.

Banner edges past him into the room and he still isn't Hulking.

"So... why don't you explain why you're here and not there and maybe the other guy won't need to make this any more unpleasant for either of us than it already is."

So that's it. The mortal is simply... holding off.

Waiting for all the facts. Waiting for Tony.

Or, remembering Tony's words this morning, perhaps just waiting for _him_ to make the first threatening move?

Well, he is _not_ afraid.

Banner's monster gave him a pounding, true. But he has had worse poundings in the past.

And merely being slapped about like a child's ragdoll for a few seconds is far, far better than what happened in the months that followed.

No. He is not _frightened_ of Banner.

He is just... cautious.

He slides the door closed and follows the man into the room.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony wakes to the sound of an alarm.

He has a vague recollection of a party, some neon lights and a couple of mushroom-headed mutants wielding hamburgers and half of him really, really just wants to go back there. The other half hasn't left.

"Switch'toff," he mumbles.

Then he rolls over and buries his head beneath his pillow.

"Sir, Mr Banner is here," Jarvis says.

For a moment, lost in his hazy half-awareness, he wonders what the problem is. Sure Bruce hasn't exactly come round before. There hadn't been all that much tower left directly after things had finished, and Bruce'd just wanted a stress free environment and a trip to the nearest airport. But it's not a problem.

He likes Bruce and Bruce understands science like Loki does.

Suddenly, suddenly it clicks and he thinks _shit_.

And he's awake.

OoOoOoOoO

Banner fiddles absently with nothings as they wait for Tony.

With the pens. With the back of the couch. With his shirt.

"I am here because Stark and Steve _invited_ me here. I have... served my sentence. By Aesir law I am forgiven," Loki eventually offers after pouring himself a generous scotch.

He _needs_ it.

Under the circumstances, he's sure Potts will forgive him.

"Short sentence, don't you think? Three, four, months for an attempt at destroying a city and a shot at subjugating the entire human race."

The words are bland, spoken with self-deprecating dryness.

Loki's gaze snaps back to the mortal's.

"Three months of -," he cuts himself off because no one will _believe_ him.

He doesn't know if _he_ would believe him. Not without proof.

Banner works for SHIELD. _All_ the Avengers did. He needs the recordings to show to Banner only he has to fight the part of him which is shrinking inside because he doesn't _want_ to see them. Not again. Not his broken, pathetic body and the bright cell and the mirrors and-

It was bad enough living through it _once._

He doesn't shiver but he can feel his hands going icy.

"No details? That's okay, I guess. Maybe we can start with the basics then," Banner says mildly, "How'd you get back to earth?"

"I never left," he replies shortly.

_Where are you, Stark?_

"So I suppose if I put a call through to SHIELD, asked them what they know about this, your story would all check out?"

Banner pulls out his phone and flicks it open with one thumb, watching.

He's bluffing, part of Loki tells himself distantly. Because though they're hovering over the keys, his fingers aren't moving.

The rest of him tells him they _could_ be soon.

He can feel the blood draining from his face and it's not the sign of an honest person but he can't seem to _stop_ it. No more than he can stop the rising nausea or his fingers from clenching violently around his crystal tumbler.

"No, don't... not SHIELD. I _never_ _left_. The Allfather sentenced me. My magic was—is—bound. I am no longer a threat. Ask Stark when he comes. Just not SHIELD. They _cannot know_ I am _here_."

It's entirely deliberate and entirely genuine.

If he cannot pretend to _not_ be frightened, perhaps a show of total vulnerability will sway the doctor. It is one of the earliest tricks he learned, turning a weakness into strength like this.

Then he adds a single word.

The word which never failed to sway Thor. The word that rarely fails to sway him.

" _Please_."

And slowly, too slowly, Banner snaps his cell phone shut.

Loki downs half his scotch in one burning wave and hopes his hands aren't shaking enough for the mortal to see.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony doesn't bother to suit up.

He likes Bruce and he likes the Hulk. Especially after the whole catch-and-roar bit. Which he doesn't remember, admittedly, but which he got Jarvis to replay for him a couple of weeks later after the AI suggested he _should_. Besides, aside from the whole trust issues suiting up would start, he doubts a battle of him versus Hulk would go _his_ way anyway.

He does drag on a pair of pants and his favourite Black Sabbath shirt though. No point even _trying_ to get anyone to take him seriously if he walks in one pair of Iron-Man boxers away from nude.

And then he's out of his room and padding barefoot for the elevator.

There's no roaring.

No smashing.

He's listening for it, and he kind of hopes that means Bruce hasn't found Loki. As opposed to just Hulk has already _finished_ resmashing the demigod.

He asks Jarvis about the found bit just because he can.

"Yes, sir. It was Mr Silvertongue who suggested you be woken when he met Doctor Banner."

Which means he found him ten _minutes_ ago.

"And, ah, has Bruce Hulked yet?"

"No, sir."

Twelve of the twenty bands of tension constricting his chest ease. It's good. Really, really, unexpectedly, awesomely good.

Tony gives the doctor a mental thumbs up.

"Remind me to get him something nice for Christmas. Expandable pants."

"Yes, sir."

Then he gets into the elevator and he's going down.

 _Too_ slowly.

"Hey Jarvis? Can we make these things go any faster?"

He's pretty sure a _snail_ could outdistance him as he crawls past floor 47. 43. 39.

"We are already moving at one hundred percent capacity, sir."

Tony sighs and massages a rising headache.

Steve. He needs Steve.

He dials the ringtone and waits. And waits. Until he receives a message in a cool, impersonal, 'I-don't-have-the-time-or-skill-to-record-my-own-message' woman's voice that politely informs him Steve's phone is unavailable.

Either off or flat.

He suspects the latter and they're going to have a _long_ talk about chargers and batteries whether the supersoldier thinks he needs it or not when he gets home.

But at last he's on the right floor.

It's when he's nearly at the loungeroom that he hears the voices.

"... more scared of SHIELD than me. Odd, given the last meeting between you and the other guy."

That's Bruce and he sounds _something_.

The sort of something he sounded like when he was trying not to get involved in the tesseract discussion. Worry maybe. Or Tension.

Whatever Loki's reply is, it's said too softly for him to catch.

Or maybe Loki's just further away from the door.

And then it's open and he's _in_.

OoOoOoOoO

The biggest problem with having two friends who aren't friends, Tony thinks, is taking sides.

Because while he'd like to rip up Bruce right now for putting that _look_ on Robbie's face, the one that makes him go white and small and painfully _young,_ he also can't help noticing that Bruce is looking as though he has about as much inner peace as Master Shifu.

Master Shifu right _after_ the Dragon Warrior had been chosen.

Loki looks up when he enters and is that _alcohol_ in his hand?

It _is_.

Amber sanity only ten meters and one glass away.

He makes a beeline for it.

"Are you sure P-,"

"-I won't tell Pepper about _you_ if you don't about _me,_ Robbie," he says.

And then he's pouring himself a glass because he's had _two hours_ of sleep and he feels like something he'd scrape off his boots and he _needs_ this. Two glasses later he's managed to kick-start his brain from zombie to partly-functional. It occurs to him, then, that there are three people in the room and only two of them have got glasses.

Tony frowns at Loki.

"You didn't offer Bruce a scotch? Now that's just mean."

Loki smiles a bit. He looks pale still but he looks less... whatever that was when Tony walked in.

"I don't drink," Bruce interjects, "It's generally... unhealthy... for any room I'm in if I lose too much control."

"Ugh," Tony says, walking over and giving Bruce a sympathetic clap on the shoulder, trying to ignore the fact that the tension in the room's so thick he's almost _wading_ through it, "Loosen up a bit. I'm a billionaire. I can take a couple of smashed floors."

Bruce's lips twitch upwards.

"Thanks, Tony. But no thanks. I'm not so sure the rest of New York would appreciate it."

Loki is looking like he'd _like_ to run only he's too proud.

Reluctantly, Tony forces himself away from an argument about what New Yorker's should and should not like.

Or mostly. He can't quite resist a "You do have _fans_ now you know."

"Exactly. And I'd like to _keep_ them," Bruce says.

"You assume they could only like you less if they met you?" Loki asks unhelpfully.

"I don't know many people who like me smashing their roads, their homes and their stuff unless there's someone else out there doing it worse."

Loki flushes slightly.

"Like me."

It isn't a question.

Bruce gives it his consideration anyway.

"Well, like your alien buddies, anyway. And Blonsky. I don't actually remember that much of your personal contribution to it. Saw the aftermath though. Hurt to watch everyone crawling through smashed cars and rubble searching for family. Friends. _Kids."_

It's pointed but Tony can't quite blame him for it.

Loki's eyes narrow a bit and his face goes carefully blank. When he pours himself another glass, though, Tony sees him slosh the scotch a bit across the counter.

"Question, Bruce," Tony cuts in, pushing his glass over and giving Loki his best hopeful eyes until the demigod sighs and pours him another one too, "Why do you look like you haven't slept for a week?"

"Why do you have the supervillain who threw you out a window in your living room?" Bruce retorts.

"SHIELD," Tony says succinctly, "We kind of rescued him. From them, I mean."

He expects shock. Some sort of Clint or Tasha-esque 'what the _hell_ did you do that for' sort of response.

Bruce just sort of fiddles with a pen, clicking it in and out pointlessly.

"And he's served his sentence?"

"Yep. If you can call it a sentence. I'm not sure I'd call it anything but- You sure you're right with this Robbie?"

Loki shrugs. He still has that closed look.

"Yes. It happened and it is over."

Which is bullshit logic and Tony knows it. Especially when he's so stiff a puff of wind'd crack him.

"Right. Well, SHIELD got him de-powered, smashed from us and pretty much implicit permission from his dad to do whatever the hell they wanted to him," Tony says bluntly, "If I say he was not treated nicely, are you going to ask me for details?"

"He is _not_ my father."

Tony waves a dismissive hand.

"Adoption counts here Robbie."

Bruce looks... sick.

And suddenly Tony remembers that Bruce, too, has reason to fear SHIELD. What SHIELD might do to him if he were trapped. Helpless.

"And SHIELD wants you back?" the doctor guesses, looking at the demigod.

And there's that _something_ again in his tone Tony can't quite place. The something that is probably responsible for Loki twisting around, knuckles white on his glass and eyes icy slits.

"Yes. And I _won't go back there."_

Tony wishes, suddenly, that he was close enough to the demigod to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

"Easy Robbie, I don't think he's here acting for 'em. At least, I think he's not. You're not, are you Bruce?"

But Bruce is already sort of slumped in his chair.

"No. It's just... good to hear you're up to blocking SHIELD. Because I think they are after _me_ too."

And then Loki's done a personality switch worthy of Tasha and is seating himself on the couch eyes hard and glitteringly intense. Though Tony notes he's still strategically the middleman. Figures.

"Banner? _Explain_."


	19. Hunted

" _Explain_."

The word hangs in the air a moment, and Tony's looking at Bruce and Bruce is looking at Loki and Tony suddenly has a feeling the doctor's wondering where the demigod's helpless vulnerability went. Or maybe not. Maybe that's just Tony, projecting.

"Because I was under the impression, the _delusion_ apparently, that you all work for SHIELD as it is."

Loki's tone is sharp, and there's a note in it which makes the statement a question.

Thinking about it, Tony comes to the conclusion that, no, they never really had discussed this.

"We _kinda_ do, Robbie," he clarifies, "I'm a part-time consultant. And Tasha and Clint do because they are actual agents. But we don't work for them as _Avengers._ I mean, they can hire Tony Stark and Bruce Banner to look for your cube, but that doesn't mean they get Hulk and Iron Man."

He pauses to see if Loki's following, and is rewarded by a slow nod.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a grateful look from Bruce at the 'doesn't mean they get the Hulk' bit.

And then Tony yields to his baser self and adds:

"And c'mon, your brother? You can't have thought he'd _work_ for Fury? Help him, yes. But work?"

Predictably, Loki's eyes flash and his free hand grips the armrest suddenly, knuckles white.

"He is _not_ my brother," he hisses.

"Doesn't adoption count in Asgard?" Bruce asks mildly, still fiddling with his pen.

_Click. Click. Click._

Loki's lip curls into a sneer.

"Oh, adoption _exists_ , Banner."

Everything about the statement screams _'Ask no more questions'_.

And usually, Tony wouldn't. Not about that.

But apparently vibe reading isn't Bruce's specialty, because he says:

"Then why _aren't_ you family?"

He sounds both confused and vaguely curious. The demigod just favours him with a contemptuous glare.

"No really, Robbie, why? I never did ask," Tony says, because if _Bruce's_ got the balls to ignore the vibes and the time to get off topic, Tony doesn't see why _he_ shouldn't follow suit.

Loki gazes between them for a bit. And then he takes a long sip out if his glass and squares his shoulders.

"Tell me, Banner, have you ever read 'Jane Eyre'?"

Bruce looks as lost as Tony feels, but he does nod. Figures. Tony's just wondering when _Loki_ did.

"Imagine adopting Bertha Mason."

There's a moment of daunted silence.

"She was insane," Bruce points out cautiously.

"She was a monster. A _creature_ , used for what she could offer and then locked away until they needed her again or until she died. Like her mother. Like her family. She could never be an equal to those who surrounded her because she was damned by the blood which poisoned her veins."

_Click. Click._

Tony knows _exactly_ where this is headed. And as Bruce looks like he's trying _not_ to look like someone has just punched him in the gut, he takes it upon himself to say:

"Look, Robbie, I can't say I've read it. But I watched the TV series. And I'm pretty sure she was batshit crazy. Like, giggling in the night trying to light fires and kill herself crazy. You aren't. You wouldn't have lasted a thousand odd years with Thor if you were. "

"That's _not_ the—," Loki cuts himself off abruptly.

There's a long period of awkward silence, punctuated by clicking, where Loki's brooding and Tony doesn't know whether to go back to asking about Bruce and SHIELD or whether he should try to channel his inner Steve-slash-Pepper and say _something_ right, only he doesn't know _what_. And then the doctor coughs to clear his throat.

"Look, I'm sorry for pushing you. I hadn't realised it was so sensitive an issue for you."

Loki's brow creases.

"You would apologise to _me_? After-? For being _insensitive_?"

Bruce nods, offering him an apologetic grimace.

"Well... yes. I don't actually _enjoy_ hurting people's feelings, you know. And if you're referring to the New York incident, as far as I'm concerned if you've served your sentence and you've got Tony vouching for you that's good enough for me. You know, provided you're not planning to have another shot. My record's not so clean myself that I'd feel anything but hypocritical withholding second chances. So... yes. Sorry."

Loki stiffens, and suddenly he's no longer staring past him but actually _looking_ at Bruce.

"Oh. I am not— used to apologies. Not when I deserve what happened for something."

_Deserve what happened for something._

It's one of those dangerous undercurrent areas, again. Ones where there's a whole lot of buried history he can feel swirling about and he doesn't have a clue where to put his feet without stepping on landmines. Which is mixing metaphors, but he's partly drunk and overtired and he really doesn't _care_. He opts for saying nothing and sipping from his glass. Unlike Bruce, who says:

"Well, I figure the pounding the other guy gave you kind of made us square."

It's a mild joke on dangerous ground. Not even a joke really, except for the wry way it's said. But Loki's smiling a bit and the awkward tension in the air is easing.

"I am sorry," the demigod says, after a moment, "I always do seem to make these things about me, and I don't intend to. Not always. You were going to explain about you and SHIELD."

And, just like that, they're back on track. Only, somehow the tense, wary watchfulness is gone.

OoOoOoOoO

"It was after I went to India," Bruce starts, voice turning reminiscent, "Just over three months ago now. I'd gone there to avoid...," he gestures vaguely around the room and towards the windows, "well, you get the picture."

Tony nods, because he can think of a lot of words to describe New York in general and his tower right _now_ but 'stress free' and 'peaceful' aren't among them.

"Yes. And then?" Loki prompts.

He's leaning back a little on the sofa now, mirroring Bruce. His fingers are tapping idly on the leather in a way which would probably irritate Pepper to pieces if she were here to listen to it. If the pen clicking hadn't already shot her tolerance levels to hell.

"I didn't notice them in the first month. Maybe they weren't there. Maybe they were just hiding better. I don't know."

Bruce pauses, brow furrowing.

Tony frowns too, because he's _pretty_ sure there hasn't been any 'thems' mentioned before this.

"Wait a sec there buddy, notice _who_?"

" _People_. Watching me. I'd see them sometimes. Not so often at first but later they were everywhere I went. They'd always be doing something else, something normal, when I looked at them. When I tried to talk to them. But in windows I'd catch them sometimes watching and it felt like...," Bruce trails off, struggling for words.

 _Click. Click. Click_.

"Like a million eyes were crawling over you like spiders only you couldn't _see_ them. Like going mad, a little?"

Loki's voice is soft. Sympathetic. And blatantly manipulative or not, going by the arrested expression on Bruce's face it's accurate enough. He doesn't _want_ to think about where Loki got that from. Of the both of them feeling that exposed.

"Yes..." Bruce says, after a second or two, "Odd really, I suppose. There were only ever the three of them. Two men and a woman."

Tony takes another sip of his scotch, focusing on the slow burn.

"And, just for the record, do you still feel that here?"

"No," Bruce says, "Not really. A bit, I think, because I'm still paranoid. But not like it was."

Which is... good. Provided Bruce isn't just saying that to make him happy. Not just because it means there probably aren't bugs but because it means he feels _safe_ here. And no, he really shouldn't be getting warm fuzzy feelings in his chest because people feel safe with him, but what the hell? They're here. Might as well enjoy them.

He can always blame it on the alcohol later.

"And you _knew_ they were from SHIELD?" Loki prompts again.

Bruce hesitates.

"Well, not at first. I thought maybe they were just fans watching. Or people who were a bit shy and who'd noticed I was a bit out of place. I felt uncomfortable, a bit. But not _unsafe."_

Loki's eyes narrow a bit at the 'unsafe' part and he leans forward, head tilted a little to the side.

"But?"

Bruce shrugs.

"But then... I was working as a doctor you see. And one of my regulars, if you could call him that—he used to come in once a week for a leg wound I was treating but I _had_ only been there a month— he said people had been asking questions. About me. Where I slept. Who I talked to. I started watching for them then, really watching. And the next week he didn't show up for his appointment."

"He was murdered?"

Tony chokes on his drink.

Bruce waits for him to finish coughing before saying:

"I don't know. No one did. I asked. But I started moving after that. New towns. New clothes. Remoter places. And there were still the people watching me. I got to recognise them after the second month of it. Their disguises were pretty good; I'd thought there were more of them at the start."

The doctor falls silent again, and the pinched, bruised look is back on his face.

Tony rises abruptly and stalks over to the drinks counter because his glass is empty and there's a pleasant buzzing in his head and he wants _more_ of it. Because he doesn't _like_ the vibe he's got for where this is headed.

"Why choose those locations which were more remote?" he hears Loki ask a moment later, behind him, "Would they not be _less_ likely to act in a city, where your beast could cause the deaths of thousands were it to be released?"

"Hulk. Not beast," Tony corrects automatically, not looking around.

"It's okay Tony. But thanks."

There's a slight pause. Then:

"Hulk then," Loki says, "And my point stands. Why not stay in the cities?"

Bruce sighs.

"Look, SHIELD aren't the only ones after me. And not everyone considers a couple of million deaths a deterrent for targeting me. In a game of 'do what I tell you or the other guy will come out to play' I think, if there were a million lives in the balance, I'd cave first."

Tony finishes pouring his fourth? Fifth? His can't-really-remember-th drink and heads back to his chair, taking the decanter with him. Chances are, the way he's been going Robbie will want a refill too.

He sees Loki shrug dismissively as he makes his way back over there.

"Wise, I suppose, if you could not uphold your bluff," the demigod concedes, "Though if you are being chased by others, how do you know it is SHIELD who pursues you?"

"I'm getting there."

Tony reseats himself.

"It was two weeks ago that it happened," Bruce continues, "I was sleeping. Someone tried to get me with something. Some sort of serum I think. I don't remember it. Just going to bed and waking up to—well, let's just say I needed a new pair of pants."

"Nice to know he's got your back," Tony quips.

Bruce's eyes have that haunted, bleak look again.

"Tell that to the family who let me stay. Whose home—crops, barns, livestock—I smashed. They were lucky they didn't die too."

Tony winces.

"I thought you were avoiding other people because you did not wish to hurt them," Loki objects.

"I was trying. But there's only so long I can go without food."

Bruce sounds flat. Tired. And reading between the lines, picturing Bruce being trailed like a rabbit, starving and alone and prepared to do that to himself just to not hurt anyone only to have _that_ —

"You could have stayed with me here, Bruce."

"I know. But it was my problem Tony. Controlling the other guy always has been. I didn't want to drag you—anyone—into it. And right up till the attack half of me was still thinking that maybe I was just being paranoid. That they were probably just tourists or villagers or something and I was just imagining their similarities."

"So how _did_ you know?"

"The other guy wasn't exactly... their bodies were there when I woke. All three of them."

Loki sits up a bit at that.

Bruce still looks like he's just stepped on somebody's kitten.

"It wasn't your fault," Tony tries, because that's what he used to tell himself each night after Obie. That he hadn't _known_ the weapons were being sold to both sides.

"Thanks, Tony," Bruce says sceptically.

"No really. They were idiots to attack you when you have that good a guard and doubly idiots for not doing it when you had a chance of getting the other guy to stand down."

Loki frowns then.

"You keep on saying that, and I do not understand. Is your Hulk not always out of control? He seemed so in your files and on the Helicarrier."

If Loki's picked up that he's treading dangerous ground he seems content to ignore it.

Maybe it's payback for the whole adopted push.

Which Tony's going to be talking about with Steve just as soon as he's got a spare moment.

"If I choose to Hulk and I have an enemy to smash, I can control it better. If nothing annoys me. But when I lose control? When I don't _mean_ to Hulk only I get scared or angry and lose it? Then I smash everything in my path. They call me a rage monster for a reason. I don't even remember, really, what I do."

Something flickers in Loki's eyes.

"Ah. I gather you changed deliberately, then, in your fight against the Chitauri and me."

It isn't a question but Bruce nods anyway.

"And you're _sure_ your stalkers were SHIELD?" Tony says, steering the topic bluntly back on course.

"The men had ID's. Cards. Stuff. They were SHIELD."

Loki rises abruptly and starts pacing.

"Why would they carry such things if they were trying not to be caught?"

"They didn't wear them on their _sleeves._ I saw a few when I did research for SHIELD and there's no way they could have been faked that well. Right down to the self-erasure mechanism for the wrong fingerprints and the little eagle in on the top corner."

"Still got them?" Tony asks, just because.

"No. They were wiped anyway and I was concerned about tracking mechanisms. I didn't want to take chances."

Bruce sounds equal parts firm and apologetic.

"Sensible of you," Loki says, still moving restlessly, "Certainly it would be... unwise... to allow them to trace you here, assuming they have not already done so."

"Cheerful, Robbie. Really."

Loki snorts. And then he pauses and turns toward Bruce.

"You mentioned they were trying to inject a serum? What did it do?"

"That was one of the reasons I came here, actually," Bruce says, "Aside from Tony's being the only genuine offer of hospitality I had. You said you had a well equipped lab here. R and D. I was sort of hoping you wouldn't mind my using it to find out what the serum did. I didn't really have access to the facilities before. And I'd sort of like to test myself too-see if they did inject any."

Tony perks up a bit.

"Sure. You want any help with that? And you do know that you don't _have_ to need research to stay here right? It'll be nice having someone who doesn't think sparring is the best thing to do before breakfast. Or at all," Tony adds, after a moment more thought.

Loki raises an eyebrow.

"Just because _some_ of us prefer to stay fit..."

Something tight in Banner seems to uncoil.

"No. I'm with Tony on that one. The only thing I'd fight over before breakfast is the first cup of coffee."

"I'd win," Tony grins.

"He would."

"You haven't seen me in action," Bruce protests.

But he's smiling too now, like he had on the Helicarrier. When it had been them versus Steve. And Tony wonders, again, just how long it's been since anyone actually treated him as anything but a time bomb.

"I have seen Tony. It is enough," Loki insists.

"Tell you what though, if you're able to compete with me for the first cup, I'll personally install the second coffee machine. Right next to the first one."

"I'll hold you to that. And in the research labs?"

"Already equipped. Told you, it's candy land."

His brain is buzzing quite pleasantly now. It's like... floating. But not.

"So. What floor do you want?"

"Um..."

Bruce sounds uncertain, so Tony decides to clarify, waving an arm vaguely upwards.

"I've got over ninety stories. Top ten are labs and so's the workshop, technically. But the rest of the floors? Aside from my bedroom, _his_ and Steve's? Go for it. Whichever one you want. Unless you want to share a floor. That's cool too."

And if he sounds like an overeager fan, well, there's no one here to call him on it. Except Loki, who's looking vaguely amused.

Bruce hesitates, clicking his pen again. Then he caves.

"Well... I've always liked the idea living on the fifty sixth."

OoOoOoOoO

An hour later Bruce is upstairs and sorted with three credit cards and a fake ID and Tony collapses in a fully-clothed heap onto his bed.

"Jarvis? Don't wake me for anything. Not even HYDRA nanovirus assassins," he slurs.

It's the last thing he remembers that day.


	20. Awkward Conversations

There's a period of silence following Tony's departure.

It isn't _uncomfortable_ , exactly.

At least, it isn't for Loki. The talking before has cleared the air enough so that he is no longer concerned about being liquefied.

He hopes Banner, too, is no longer concerned that he is still trying to conquer this wretched realm. Certainly the man _looks_ more relaxed—he's no longer fidgeting with everything his fingers happen to touch and the incessant pen clicking has stopped. But it is impossible not to realise, as he stands there trying to think up _something_ to say, that Tony was the middleman. And without him here to provide the cues, it is harder to think of something to talk about which will interest but not wound.

Something that is honest but not manipulative and that isn't the _weather_.

Usually, it wouldn't be a problem. Usually, at court or with Thor on quests, he would have just risked it and counted the whole thing as part of the fun. More so, even, if manipulation were part of it.

Except that he knows—has always known—that no one _likes_ being tricked.

He does not _want_ to go back to the tense, guarded wariness of Asgard. Of _knowing_ he is mistrusted and that everyone would far _rather_ be talking to someone who wasn't going to trick them into doing things like getting caught by giants or going down troll-infested mountain passes instead of safe routes home.

Justified, perhaps. But...

Almost unconsciously he drops his gaze to the carpet, following the brown, swirling patterns aimlessly.

They're standing on Banner's new floor outside his room and it's... nice enough, Loki supposes. The carpets are a soft, thick sort which promise to be nice to walk on at night in bare feet. The furniture, too, is both modern and comfortable. There's even a balcony overlooking the bright streets below. Yes. It is pleasant.

But he does not like it here.

There are too many windows for his liking. Too much of the tinted glass that he _knows_ will become smooth, dark mirrors in the night.

Eventually, he drags his gaze away from the floor and forces himself to make eye contact.

"Do you wish to do anything else? Or shall I leave you to your own devices?"

It's safe enough, he thinks. Polite, but not demanding. And if he sounds a little uncertain, well, he's sure it's understandable under the circumstances.

Banner meets his gaze and holds it, smiling a bit.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind eating. Provided Tony doesn't live on alcohol and takeaway."

It shouldn't _matter_ that Banner actually looks back at him when he talks. It shouldn't _matter_ that he is making mild jabs with him at Tony's expense. It _shouldn't_ , just like it shouldn't matter that there is no pity in the mortal's eyes.

"He doesn't," Loki says, more strongly now, "His refrigerator is kept well stocked by Pepper, though less than half of its contents, I think, are edible," Banner snorts then and he finds himself smiling back before he realises, "But... you do not wish to rest first?"

It's not that he _cares,_ especially, if the mortal eats. He doesn't.

It is just that in his shoes, Loki would have slept for hours and hours until the dark circles were _gone_ if he'd managed to find a safe place to do so after the long _months_ of running. But then, perhaps Banner does not think of here as safe.

He tilts his head a little, inquiring.

Banner only shrugs.

"I slept on the plane. And, well, it's been months since I've had anything but rice and spiced everything. I didn't really stop on the way here either so... coffee too," Banner hesitates, then adds, "Tony wasn't kidding about having the machines was he?"

 _Coffee_.

If he were not smiling already, he would be now.

"He was not," Loki reassures the man, "Shall I take you to it, or would you prefer Jarvis to do so?"

"Jarvis can take me to places?" Banner frowns. "I thought he was just an intelligence system."

Loki narrows his eyes dangerously, smile forgotten.

 _"Just?_ He is not _just_ a system. He is _Jarvis_. Just because he does not have a body does not mean he is not a _person._ He can give directions and advice."

The mortal rubs his neck.

"Right. I was more imagining 'taking me places' in a physical sense. I didn't know if he'd been robotised. No offense. But... he can give me directions to anywhere in here? Because that's pretty neat."

He sounds intrigued and Loki unbends, feeling a bit foolish. He should have guessed, really, that none of Tony's scientific friends would insult Jarvis.

And then, suddenly, Jarvis' voice echoes through the room.

"I can, Dr Banner. My protocols do include helping Mr Stark's guests find their way around all the floors in Stark Tower."

Banner lifts an eyebrow.

"And can you? I mean, how do you know when we need help? Do you monitor _everything_ which happens in the tower?"

There's an undercurrent of... _something..._ in his voice. A sort of half hopeful, half disbelieving relief which Loki doesn't quite understand.

"Oh yes, Dr Banner. And outside it. Moreover, if anyone attempts, or succeeds, in breaking into the tower, security systems will be activated and Mr Stark will be alerted."

And suddenly, _suddenly,_ he _sees._

Safety.

Jarvis is safety, like Heimdall in Asgard, making sure no enemies made it into the kingdom unmarked. Only Heimdall had not been so very safe after all, once he'd had found a way to slip that golden gaze. No one there had been. Still, Loki thinks, Jarvis is different. Jarvis knows when he has been compromised, and only those attacking the Tower would try. For Jarvis to not see, then, is an alert in itself. 

Isn't it?

Loki considers that for a moment more, before shaking himself out of his thoughts.

"Wow. That's... Tony must have put quite a bit of effort into creating you," Banner is saying now, and his voice is lighter somehow. Admiring, even.

"Thank you, Dr Banner," Jarvis says, sounding gratified.

Loki decides the mortal has just risen above both Romanoff and Barton in his esteem.

"So, Banner, what is it that you wish to eat?" he asks.

The mortal's eyes glaze over with thought for all of twenty seconds. Then they clear.

"This may sound a bit weird. I mean, I could probably have _anything_ here. But... does Tony have bread?"

Loki casts his mind backwards.

"I think so. Steve eats it in sandwiches, when he has them."

"Thank goodness for Steve then. I've been craving proper toast for months. And if it's all the same to you, I will take you up on your offer to take me down. I wouldn't mind being filled in on why you and Tony were so quick to believe it was SHIELD after me. I anticipated a lot more 'you're imagining things', no offense."

Something blunt deep within him twists, but he nods.

Neither of them says very much as Loki walks over to the elevator and asks Jarvis to take them to the loungeroom.

Possibly, Banner is _thinking._

Loki knows he is.

He feels like a turtle, a little. A turtle deprived of its shell in the presence of a blind wolf.

He can _feel_ his own vulnerability. Can feel each and every thrice cursed crack in his armour which he doesn't _want_ to break. Only, in a way it already has. Because though he can hold the pieces of himself together and weld them again into a crude whole, he cannot sink much _lower_ than what Steve—what Tony and Barton and Romanoff and Potts—have already seen.

But Banner is different. Banner doesn't _know_.

He can see in his eyes that he half suspects _something,_ but he doesn't _know_ about SHIELD's cells and the—everything.

There is no buried pity or compassion in the man's eyes. Just a hint of interest and confusion and... and _respect,_ there because somehow he hasn't yet lost it and he doesn't know _why_ he hasn't but he doesn't _want_ to. Doesn't _want_ himself to be torn apart again by the mercy, the pity the mortal will undoubtedly show _._

He wonders just how far he can twist the truth to hide it without breaking it.

OoOoOoOoO

Ten minutes later, he's sitting near—not next to—the man in the loungeroom watching as he inhales slice after slice of buttered toast between sips of straight black coffee with a relish Loki doesn't quite understand.

"So," Banner says, on slice number six, "What made you guys suspicious of SHIELD? Enough to believe three of their agents would target me, no proof offered?"

Loki pours himself an orange juice from the carton at his elbow.

And then he sucks in a deep breath and starts _._

He talks a lot. About SHIELD. About weapons shipments. About missing agents and about Fury not quite sounding like he should. About Hill.

He avoids mentioning his sentence.

"The logical conclusion, therefore, was that someone was attempting to discredit your Director Fury," he concludes, a good fifteen minutes later, "Though we do not yet know why."

His fingers are drumming restlessly along the table top. It's a nervous habit, and one he should probably learn to control.

"That's... what made you so sure it wasn't just coincidence? Or that it wasn't Fury?" Banner objects, biting again into his toast.

"Do you really think Fury is that incompetent? That he is that _twisted?"_ he demands.

The mortal doesn't reply. He is chewing and Loki finds himself clenching up and has to force himself to _relax_ and not to _scream_ at him that it doesn't _matter_ what he thinks because he's been over this twice already and he hates it. But this time there's no Tony or Steve to take the burden of explanation from him when it gets too heavy.

Banner manages to swallow.

"I'm just saying I'm surprised you thought it went that high. Before they went after me, though even that could have been passed off as rogue agents too. I expected it to be more a 'let's investigate low level infiltrators' thing. I mean, there are a lot of people out there with reasons to hate me and the other guy," Banner admits with a grimace.

He pauses for a mouthful of coffee.

"To be fair to you though, I don't _know_ Fury that well. I _do_ know is a spy. He's good at running the long con. Ignoring the little things at the lower levels. And... weapons dealing and emotional shifts aren't always signs of impersonation. Stress maybe. And... he did threaten to have you tortured before the Helicarrier incident. Talked to Thor about it. If they wanted information... Not that I don't believe something odd's up. Just considering every angle."

Banner sounds awkward. What Loki _should_ do is ask about the missing agents and point out that the attack on Banner occurred around the same time as his rescue and that the closeness of the two events are unlikely to be unrelated. What he _should_ do is point out that he was never asked _anything_. Instead he tries not to look like he cares and says:

"And Thor said?"

Banner's face is a little too knowing.

"I think he said something to the effect that you were doing what you were doing for revenge on him and you had too high a pain threshold for it to work."

Loki blinks, and wondering if he should feel flattered Thor thought so highly of his tolerance levels or offended that he'd not seemed to find anything _wrong_ with the idea of his supposedly loved brother being tortured. He wonders what it says about him that he leans towards the former.

"Not that that's really the issue," Banner says, jerking him out of his thoughts, "I'm just saying... what makes you so sure it wasn't just a couple of low level agents being allowed to operate to draw in the big fish?"

"Low level agents who simply _happened_ to know where you were? Who had access to a still unidentifiable serum?"

"Well... they could have."

Banner doesn't sound certain, though. If, indeed, he ever had.

Now, Loki does point out the similar dates of both the attack and the rescue.

"Coincidence, Banner? Coincidence that your attack occurred around the time that whoever did the rescuing would be _expected_ to be looking for proof of SHIELD's duplicity?"

Banner rises and makes his way over to the toaster again.

Loki takes it for capitulation.

"We think it's a man called Polt," he says to the man's back, "He is most likely, Romanoff thinks, to take Fury's position should he happen to lose it. She and Barton are still searching for confirmation though."

"Polt?"

There's something sharp in Banner's tone. Loki narrows his eyes.

"You know him?"

"No," Banner hesitates, "Not really. Just... I recall seeing the name once. On a check. He used yellow ink. It was back when I was doing the research project for Ross, the one where I sort of acquired the other guy. He was one of the major sources of funding, I think. Probably a coincidence though. Polt can't be that rare a surname."

Mere pieces of the puzzle, true. But he doesn't _like_ the picture he is putting together.

"You may be right," he lies.

Everything in him says that it is too much of a coincidence for the two Polts to _not_ be the same.

"So... Romanoff and Barton, hmm? How did you get _them_ to work with you?" Banner asks, putting two more slices of plain white bread inside the metal contraption.

Loki stiffens. It is a fair question, though, and so he steels himself and hopes Banner can't read facial expressions well from across the other side of the room.

"The Allfather placed a collar on me which is... unpleasant, shall we say... to see in action. They did. And, I asked Tony to show them the footage of what happened in SHIELD's cells."

"About that... you've only been out of them for a fortnight?"

"I—yes. I told you that."

His stomach feels as though it is being kneaded.

"You heal fast," Banner compliments him, "Assuming it was physical rather than psychological. What did they want?"

"I— _nothing_. They never asked anything."

Which is not the same thing as never _saying_ anything but it's close enough.

Banner looks awkward, as if he _wants_ to know more only he doesn't want to poke or prod or make anything snap. Loki watches him, and knows his little, half acknowledged plan to _not_ get that look in Banner's eyes was doomed from the start.

"I don't... Tony has footage, if you want to see."

He doesn't mean for it to come out as defensive and flat as it does.

"They tortured you on _film_?"

"Yes. There were security cameras in my cells. And the walls were—there were _always_ people watching."

He isn't quite sure why that makes it worse for Banner. No... that is a lie. Only, so many of his punishments have been public that it's easy to forget, sometimes, that the mortals are not always so ruthless.

"So you..."

"I do not wish to discuss this," Loki snaps, "If you wish to know what happened, you may see the footage. If not, accept that it was enough for both Tony and Steve to decide to rescue me within _hours_ of seeing it. Accept that it was enough for Barton and Romanoff to believe that whoever authorised it was _not_ Fury. That—,"

He cuts himself off, fingers trembling on the tabletop.

Footsteps. There are footsteps behind him.

Not from Banner, who is staring intently at the toaster as though merely looking at it will make his bread pop faster.

They are coming from the doorway.

It _has_ to be Steve but he'd thought that before and it had been Banner. So now he just tries not to tense and waits for whoever it is to come in.

"I—,"

He doesn't know what he was going to say. A warning, perhaps.

But the door opens behind them before he can and he twists about sharply, words forgotten.

The figure enters, big, blond, muscular and _blue_ and it _is_ Steve. Steve who looks almost as surprised to see Banner as Loki had and who gives Loki a searching once over before saying:

"Dr _Banner_?"

He doesn't bother to disguise his surprise, but he doesn't sound hostile. Just curious.

And then he's striding over to sink down on a chair next to Loki and is reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl Pepper thoughtfully filled yesterday.

"Captain," Banner says.

There's a moment of pointed silence, in which Steve is peering at the doctor expectantly and Banner just looks... tense. Where everyone waits for someone else to speak and no one says anything. And then Steve's stomach makes a long, carrying gurgle.

The supersoldier flushes beet red.

Loki can't help it. He snickers.

"Long day?" he says.

Steve sighs.

_"Yes."_


	21. Bonding, Shrek and Loki

The supersoldier's flush is fading now from 'beet red' to 'brick', though the tips of his ears are still dark.

Loki grins at him.

"If I were Tony, I would have taken three pictures of you by now on my phone. You look so delightfully... pink."

Steve sighs and bites deeply into his apple.

"That, Loki, would be funnier if it were less true. And I'm sorry about before, by the way. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Banner, still watching the toaster, says:

"It's fine. We were finished talking. About what you interrupted _,_ anyway."

Only the fact that Steve is watching him and Banner _isn't_ stops him from shooting the man a grateful look.

Steve, oblivious, just nods.

Or maybe not so oblivious, if the growing suspicion in those blue eyes is anything to go by.

"So, Dr Banner, what made you decide to come here? Social visit? Or is there something I should be aware of?"

Loki half expects Banner to abandon the toaster and join them now that Steve has asked. It's what _he_ would do. And really, the bread _should_ have popped by now. Since it hasn't it deserves to be left.

But the doctor doesn't. He stays where he is, the bench acting as a barrier between them.

"There is a reason I came. Not that I don't enjoy seeing you guys. To put it simply, SHIELD. I wouldn't bring the other guy here—threaten New York like this— for no reason. Loki can tell you if you want, or you can wait for me to get back over there. Just waiting on the toast."

Steve's face hardens at the mention of SHIELD.

"They didn't—? I mean, not you, too?"

The words are raw with sudden worry, and Loki finds himself shaking his head before Steve has finished speaking.

"No. He wasn't. They could not, I think, with his protection. His Hulk would not allow it. But they did do something, I think...," he trails off, hesitating, eyes slipping back towards Banner.

"So—,"

Banner's toast pops.

Loki waits for him to return with it, perhaps after scraping on some butter or jam. But the man disappears into the pantry instead. From within, there's the sound of boxes shifting and jars sliding as the mortal rummages through it. A sudden craving? Or, perhaps, a retreat.

Loki mentally shrugs.

If it's the latter—if Banner doesn't wish to relive things—well, that is something he _more_ than understands.

"SHIELD agents attacked Banner two weeks ago, very near to the time of my rescue," he says quickly and simply, "They have been, he thinks, trailing him for some time. He had been running for months before they attacked."

He pauses for another sip of his juice and raises a hand to forestall further questions.

"We are not sure what they were trying to do, but they did have a serum on their bodies—the Hulk killed them, you understand. The doctor came here both for protection and to find out what it is this serum does."

Steve is quiet as he absorbs the dry, factual words.

"—you mean SHIELD's been planning to target him for weeks?" Steve frowns, then calls more loudly, "Why didn't you come here sooner?"

"These sorts of places aren't really... safe. From the other guy," Banner's disembodied voice replies, "I was hoping I was wrong, and like I said to _him_ , I wasn't really counting on you believing that a couple of stalkers after the other guy were a serious threat. When I knew who they were, I came."

Steve half opens his mouth and then closes it. Then he takes another bite of his apple.

"You do not disagree?" Loki asks, more softly.

The supersoldier shrugs.

"They're not pleasant. But... no. I'm not sure I'd call stalkers anything but an issue for the police. Certainly not something to tell SHIELD about or risk Hulking out in New York. Not that he would, I think, but it's always a danger."

Loki opens his mouth to reply, but before he can do so Banner emerges triumphantly with a little brown jar which says 'Nutella'.

"Got it," he says, "I knew Tony had to keep some there _somewhere."_

He spreads a thick layer on his bread.

And then finally, _finally,_ he joins them.

"Chocolate on bread," Loki says, wrinkling his nose doubtfully.

"You'd like it," Banner says.

"Oh?"

"Well, it's Nutella."

Loki eyes him for a bit.

"Try it before you call me on it. But you will. It's chocolate and ground nuts and it's edible straight from the jar. _Not_ that I'm recommending that as healthy."

"If it's sweet I second his liking it," Steve says.

"I don't like _all_ sweet things. I don't like," Loki searches blindly, "Turkish delight."

"That's because we watched 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe', not because of the flavour" Steve says.

Loki glares at him.

"We were discussing SHIELD," he huffs.

"Right," Banner says, drawing the syllable out, "So... any more questions?"

"Well, yes," Steve says bluntly, "But they will have to wait, I think, until you have analysed that serum with your—stuff. I mean, I'd like to know what SHIELD are up to, but I think we need to know what they were planning to do to you for that. That or Natasha to call in."

"Stuff," Banner echoes, shaking his head, " _Stuff_. I agree about the serum though. I should have information in a day or so. Depending whether it's a simple peptide structure or something more complex. But call me Bruce, please," he adds.

"Bruce," Steve repeats, smiling.

Loki doesn't say anything.

There's silence for a little while, punctuated mainly by chewing. Loki has finished his juice now so he drums his fingers lightly on the tabletop, waiting.

Then Banner looks up.

"So, Steve, you mentioned your day was a long one...was it a productive one? Did you rescue-,"

"-Don't say helpless kittens," Steve interjects.

Loki grins.

Banner meets his eyes for a split second before saying:

"Helpless felines?"

Steve groans.

"Why do you think that's what I do?" he complains, "Just because I did it once, _once,_ does not mean that's how I always spend my morning runs."

Banner's eyes widen.

"You did? Lord, you actually did."

"It was a cat, not a kitten," Steve says defensively, "And he was an obviously lost house-cat who was going to step onto a busy road. I don't go looking for these things."

"It still counts," Loki assures him, "What did you do with him?"

And how had he not known about this?

"He was a 'her', actually," Steve says, "And the owner's number was on the collar. I called him and gave the cat back. I'm not Mr Incredible. I don't go _looking_ for these things," he says again.

Both Loki and Banner eye him a bit.

"I don't," he says weakly.

Banner gives a short bark of laughter.

"You'll never live it down," he prophesies.

Steve manages a short-lived glare. Then he seems to deflate.

"I know."

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner is pasta again because Pepper brings it downstairs before leaving. She doesn't bat an eyelash at Banner, merely telling him that since Tony is asleep he can have his share.

Privately, Loki suspects that gesture meant more to Banner than any protestations she could have made about not _minding_ the Hulk.

He doesn't say so.

After dinner, they're full and tired and sitting around the table half thinking they should offer to put the dishes in the dishwasher and half hoping someone else will. Or at least, Loki knows _he_ is.

After five minutes, he starts making hints that he would not object to someone _else_ doing the dishes.

After another five, Steve gets them, rolls his eyes, and cleans up anyway.

"But it's your turn tomorrow. Or Tony's. Or yours," he says, poking a fork in Banner's general direction.

"Of course," Loki murmurs.

"I mean it," Steve says severely. But he's smiling.

Banner just shakes his head and grins.

Once Steve's in the kitchen there's a period of quiet, broken by the occasional clatter.

It lasts until Loki asks Banner, idly, about science. And Banner _answers._ Answers first questions about electrons and bonds and shells and then about DNA and catalysts and genes and everything Loki doesn't understand that Tony can't explain.

He feels like a child again as he drinks the knowledge in.

There's so much there he can manipulate. So much more he can _use_ with the strange way the mortals see things. Their ways of simplifying everything to the simplest levels which, if he could only remove the damnable collar, would be so easy to abuse.

They've barely scratched the surface when Steve finishes the dishes and rejoins them.

A part of him wants to babble onwards. To know more and more about _everything_ from someone who understands until _he_ does too. But he knows, from Asgard, how it felt to be on the outside. To have friends who _knew_ he couldn't understand their interests who used that to exclude him. To make him feel lacking _._

Knows because he did so with Amora to Thor. Knows because Thor did so with the warriors three and Sif to him. He can't remember, now, whose fault it was that it started.

When it was that it stopped being a game and started to hurt.

"Does anyone else feel like watching a movie?" he says abruptly, looking between his two companions.

It's sudden and there isn't really a gap for it but it's worth it to see Steve lose the vacant stare.

He nods.

Banner says, "Sure. But not something too tense."

"Of course," Loki agrees.

He remembers the Helicarrier.

"We've got 'Shrek'," Steve says, hopefully, "I wouldn't mind re-watching that one."

Banner looks at the supersoldier for a long moment and Loki doesn't really understand _why_. Not then.

But then the doctor relaxes.

"Sure. Why not?"

And so, 'Shrek' it is. Apparently it is an animated movie with music. Which is what Loki would have picked anyway. Odd as it is, he enjoys both their catchy tunes _and_ their unrealistically happy endings.

OoOoOoOoO

He enjoys Shrek.

He _does_.

He laughs at the right parts. He makes sure he does, and possibly some parts that he really shouldn't be laughing at at _all_.

But he can feel something twisting and twisting and tearing inside because it's like everything Steve has said and Asgard has taught has come together in one twisted heap.

Monster. A monster who isn't a monster because he _is_ one but he's not _monstrous._ Different cultures. Liking swamps.

_Liking ice._

Liking mud baths and laughing at the townsfolk with their pitchforks.

_"You've come a long way to die, Asgardian."_

It's a child's movie and it shouldn't _mean_ what it does and he is weak for not being able to _stop_ it.

And yet...

_"They judge me before they even know me."_

_I killed you before you got the chance to explain._

Banner looks to be coping better.

And looking at him, Loki suspects that this movie wasn't chosen for _himself_ at all.

After it's over he leaves with a fake yawn and a muttered "I'm going to bed now" before anyone else can say anything.

Because he doesn't _like_ where his mind is taking him. He doesn't like it and it's fake and it should mean nothing and his bed's too hard or he's too soft because it's digging in and he can't get to sleep and he _needs_ it.

_"I'm here, you know. If you want to talk about anything. Anything at all."_

It's tempting. So very, very tempting.

Because he trusts, a little now, that Steve _wants_ everything to get better. That Steve _wants_ to make things okay.

He turns again in bed, trying to get comfortable.

It's been two hours and he _knows_ he isn't going to get any sleep.

And lying there, contemplating a night of his own, twisted thoughts and the hollow deadness inside, he caves.

"Jarvis?" he says, "Where is Steve?"

OoOoOoOoO

Steve is in the gym.

He is pounding on bags and Loki suspects, as he enters, that the straps will snap very soon.

They do.

"Steve," he calls, as the man reaches for another bag.

The supersoldier straightens.

"Loki?"

Loki swallows. He's twisting them hem of his T-shirt and he knows he _should_ be saying more and _doing_ more and but it's so much _harder_ than he'd thought it would be.

"What is it? Trouble sleeping?"

"I wanted to— _talk,"_ he blurts out, "You said I could."

Steve looks like Loki would if he'd just been given a rare and potent book of spells. It's... unnerving. But all he says is:

"Here? Or the loungeroom?"

"Here," Loki says, because he is here already.

He's here and his courage is seeping from him like water through a sieve and he's lasted through Banner and through Pepper and Tony and it's so, so _stupid_ that it's _Shrek_ that makes him crack.

Steve sits down on one of the benches and pats the seat invitingly.

Loki doesn't sit. He does inch closer though.

He opens his mouth, shuts it, then screws up the tattered shreds of his courage.

"Promise you will listen?" he says.

Steve nods and it's enough.

"Frost giants are monsters. They thrive on chaos. They kill because it is _fun._ They lie and deceive and have no honour worth mentioning and are _worthless_. When the builder came—but you know that tale. When we knew he was a Jotun it was _alright_ to crush his head in on the spot. _Alright_ to slaughter a household—the women too— for one giant's theft of Mjolnir. Alright for _Thor_ to be exiled to earth for three days with Foster for killing _hundreds_ of them with no remorse. No mercy. Because one of them insulted him."

The words are a little more than a whisper. He _hates_ them and their weakness.

Steve is stiffening.

"We _hate_ them. It is their blood which makes them monsters. They cannot fight against it, try though they may. So it's _alright_ to punish them for what we know they _will_ do, when they haven't yet. It's _alright_ to do _anything_ you choose to them because however little you are, the Jotnar are _less."_

He keeps his eyes firmly on Steve's feet because they're easier to face, somehow, than the eyes he knows will be filled with pity or misdirected contempt.

"That's bollocks."

"Is it?" Loki demands, not looking up, " _Look_ at me. Am I not all of that? I never _could_ be what Asgard wanted and I used to try so hard to make them see me the way they did Baldur. The way they do Thor. At least now I know why I failed."

Steve slams a palm down on the bench and it shivers beneath the impact.

"It's bollocks, Loki. Back when I was born there were still people saying that being born with dark skin instead of light made you less worthy. That being a Jew made you less worthy. It's rubbish. You cannot be defined by your race."

Loki sighs.

"I know, sort of. Shrek helped. I mean..." he's babbling and he can't seem to keep his thoughts on track.

He falls silent.

Steve lets him think.

"I know what you mean _better_ now. You mean that just because it is my nature to enjoy scaring off peasants and just because they're frightened doesn't mean _I_ am worthless. That one can have such incomprehensible habits as the ogre and not deserve to be killed like Farquaad wanted to kill them. I... understand that. I am _different,_ not nothing. Not from blood."

He hesitates. And the words are spewing upwards but it's _Steve_ and he can't be bothered fighting them.

"But how do I stop hating _me_ if I'm the orc who always thought he was an elf? If I am the beast and there _is_ no Belle and there never will be? If I don't _ever_ have the right emotions and in a hundred years you will not be _there_ to show me I'm wrong? How do I _stop_?"

Steve is _wrong_. He doesn't feel better talking. He _hates_ this.

Steve rises.

"Loki, you are a frost giant. You are _not_ worthless and you aren't evil or vile or nothing. Look at me."

Loki doesn't.

The feet are moving towards him now.

 _"Look_ at me Loki," Steve says again, more gently.

Slowly, slowly, he forces his eyes upwards.

Steve's face holds both the pity he hates and the acceptance he craves.

"Loki, you are _not_ worthless. You have as much courage as any of the men who followed me into HYDRA's lairs. Too keep on going, not give up, after what happened. To not snap. And you are _not_ what you do. You _always_ have a choice. If all you knew how to do was kill and lie you would have ended us all thrice over since we rescued you and instead you watch movies and try to understand science. You are _not_ a monster Loki. Tell yourself that. Write lists, if you have to, of the reasons you are worthy. I can help you. But you are _not_ a monster."

Lists.

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

And how _can_ he say that the reason he didn't snap was that he'd already done that with the Chitauri? With the abyss?

_No Loki._

"I used to visit Fenris," he hears himself saying, "Every week, when I could. He has been bound for over seven hundred years now. When he was a puppy he used to—He can't howl, you know. Odin put the sword in his mouth and it cuts him. Even with my healing his jaw was always half severed when I got back. I used to be able to see the bone. The chains dig in and the wounds are always bleeding and scratching and _hurting._ And he can't move. Not even to scratch the itches or... And there will be no one there, now that my magic has failed, to clean away the filth or force him to eat. To talk to him. I am _not_ worthy. There is _no one_ I have _not_ failed _._ "

He doesn't want to cry. He won't cry. He _won't._

Only why does Steve have to look at him like that and _care?_

"It's okay, Loki. It's- hell, who am I kidding? It's _not_ okay. But we'll- when we beat SHIELD we'll get you your magic back somehow and we'll _make_ things okay."

_Things will never be okay._

And then Steve's _there_ and holding his arm steadily.

"Loki? It's _going_ to be okay."

It's lies of course.

Steve hasn't even said how.

But as stands there trying to hold himself together he lets himself believe, just for a little while, that it could be true.


	22. The Eye of the Storm

The air is cold, and he notices it now.

Perhaps because his feet and fingers feel like lumps of clammy ice. Or maybe they've been like that for a while. Maybe it's because Steve's hand is so warm that he's suddenly aware of how very _not_ so he is by comparison.

He shivers.

Steve is still talking.

"... fix it. Even if we have to visit Asgard we'll fix it. _Seven hundred years._ What did he do? Maybe we can—,"

"—Nothing," Loki cuts him off.

He feels hollow inside. Like he has merely an empty space where other people have hearts because his is currently being offered up to Steve on a crystal platter. But he wants this. Wants him to understand.

"He did not... It was not _about_ that. Mother had a vision. He is to kill the Allfather. No one knows when. And Odin had him bound as soon as he knew to hold off that day. And I was—I didn't _know_. I wasn't _there_ and I couldn't get the chains off because nothing can break them."

His voice is shaking as he spews forth his weak, miserable excuses and he wishes it wouldn't. Wishes it would stay steady and flat and in control like it _should_.

"So he's just..." Steve doesn't seem to be able to finish.

But he's listening _._

And Loki's throat is suddenly too small and too tight for all the words which are clawing their way up and he has to pause, to swallow, before he can go on.

But at last he manages to spit them out.

"Yes. And I couldn't _do_ anything. They feasted for months after putting him in chains and I sat there when I got home and pretended that I was happy. _Happy_ that the monster destined to swallow our moon and sun and slaughter the King had been trapped and locked away when he was my _son_. When I didn't know which made me the greater disappointment to the Allfather: The fact that I'd fathered him or the fact that even knowing what he was I couldn't _make_ myself not care for him anymore."

_Worthless. Worthless. Useless._

The words are still flowing. Every bitter thought. Everything he knows there is no point in feeling, which he shouldn't feel, that he _does_.

"Everyone knew he was half Jotun. Her blood was held to have beaten mine and I never _knew_ why mine wasn't enough."

He knows Steve will object to this.

Knows it like he knows the anger on the soldier's face isn't directed at him. He doesn't give him a chance to speak.

"Odin once told Thor, after he'd broken the treaty with Jotunheim, that he unworthy. But I think, even then, I knew it was a lie. There was only ever one unworthy person in that room. Fenris. Asgard. Thor. The Chitauri. Even the Jotuns. I fail everyone eventually. I will fail you and Tony and however long it takes I will do _something_ wrong and there is _nothing_ I can do to make that go away."

And there is no swamp for him to run to if he must leave. No icy heap he can crawl into making snow cones.

If home exists it is here and he doesn't _want_ to be cast out.

The words have stopped now. And it's the hardest thing he's done in weeks not to drop his eyes back down to the floor.

And then Steve is talking again.

"I don't know how it works in Asgard but here... we're all screw-up's. Big or small, we _all_ make mistakes. It doesn't mean we are worthless, it just means that we need a second chance. That we need help. We wouldn't— _I_ wouldn't hate you just for making a mistake, Loki. One mistake doesn't cancel out a friendship. Fifty wouldn't. We all stuff things up eventually. I'd like to think if I made one you wouldn't hate me."

The words are smooth and sweet as honey.

Loki twists free from Steve and begins pacing restlessly. Immediately, he misses the warmth.

He doesn't go back.

 _"When,_ captain? When did you ever make a mistake that wasn't because you were too weak, too slow, too anything, but because you _chose_ it? Because you hated or because you feared and you could so _easily_ have done what you knew you should have but didn't? _When_ Steve? _When_ did you need a second chance?"

Because he has to _know_.

Because if he is no monster then why does he fall down every time he is put to the test? If it wasn't _him_ than why wasn't everything he had ever enough?

Because if Steve has fallen, perhaps there is hope that he may rise.

There's a long silence.

"Peggy," Steve says at last, "You remember I told you about Peggy?"

Steve is... answering.

"The one you would have married?" he offers.

The supersoldier nods.

"Yeah. That's the one. I remember when I first met her. She was so smart and fun and, and _English_. And she saw me. Even when I was a weakling with way to much mouth and too little sense she saw me. She— I'm not boring you with this am I?"

"No," Loki says and it isn't even a lie, "No. I like hearing about her. She reminds me of Sif, a little."

Steve looks dubious.

"You mean the one who threw a fit when you chopped off her hair? I'm not so sure... I think Peggy would have just worn a hat and laughed at herself, but I guess it never happened. And is Thor married to her? Because he is in the myths."

Loki's halts abruptly.

"Thor? _Married_? He and Sif were lovers once. But married? The closest Thor came to being married was when he impersonated the lady Freya to obtain Mjolnir after it was stolen by the frost giants."

Steve flushes.

"Right. And, ah, was that the one when you two donned the dresses?"

He has a sudden vision—remembrance—of Thor, all gowned and veiled. Dressed in all the glory of gold and silver cloths and thread and jewels that Frigga could rustle up on the spot. And Thor's face underneath it all, bright red, beardless and utterly, utterly unmanly.

He laughs. He _shouldn't._ Not when they're discussing what they are. But the aching, hurting emptiness makes it hard to think and suddenly it's all coming out in one tight, mindless wave and he is aware he sounds more than a little mad.

It takes him longer than it should to stop.

Steve half moves an arm, as though he wants to reach out again. Half of him wants to tell the man to do so and the other half doesn't want to _have_ to ask.

He settles for answering the mortal's question instead.

"Oh yes. It was. Mine was the more tasteful of the two. But... well, one day I will show you, though you must not tell Thor. It... it really was quite something," he finishes unsteadily.

"You should," Steve says, and he looks... tight somehow. Drawn. "You could even sketch it for me. If, you know, you had time. And if you like drawing."

What does he have but time now?

"I do. And I will," he says anyway.

And, after a moment's hesitation, he adds:

"I didn't mean your Peggy was vain like Sif. Not that you heard me call her so, you understand. I merely meant that, well, I remembered what you said _before_ and Sif would, and has, 'decked' everyone who has shown her disrespect. And more than a few who just _sounded_ as though they might have. And she is loyal. Even when her leaders were weak she was always loyal."

That last bit is gritted out.

Because it's true, only her loyalty never was to anyone but Odin and Thor.

"Yeah," Steve is nodding, slowly now, "She was loyal. To me, anyway. She once disobeyed a commanding officer to steal a plane and get me over enemy lines when my friend, Bucky, had been captured by HYDRA. A lot of men, really. But it was him I went for. She was really... something special, you know?"

_She is more like Sif than you know._

"She sounds... brave."

Steve's eyes, when he risks looking at them, are vaguely dreamy, lost in the past.

"She was. I don't know how to dance, you know. I never learned—too busy fighting. Always figured I'd wait for the right partner. But anyway, I told her that and she told me later, when Bucky was trying to flirt with her—he was always popular with the ladies—that she was waiting too. For me."

Steve's words are forced now. Choked. And he wants to tell the man to stop because Steve isn't _supposed_ to show emotions like this.

"Are you-?"

"I'm sorry," Steve says, "It was just. Later."

"If you don't want to talk about it...," Loki says, hesitating.

"It's fine. It's just... it feels like just the other day to me. Like if I went down to the SSR HQ she'd still be there like she was, waiting for me with orders. But I don't think that division even exists anymore. I- it's fine. There are plenty of people out there who've had worse than me. I just... remember sometimes. It's fine though. I just try to focus on the good times we had."

Loki forces himself to nod. Then he starts pacing again.

"So... when did you need your second chance?"

Steve turns and begins unwrapping the white cloth bands from his fingers.

"It was after one of the missions. A woman, I'd never met her—didn't even know her name. Well, she... kissed me. And there were a million things I should have done. That I _could_ have done that I didn't. I had Peggy. I loved her. And I kissed the other one back anyway. There are a thousand excuses I could offer, but it boils down to that I should have said no and I didn't. Peggy found us."

The man sounds tired.

And it's not the same because kissing the wrong woman isn't the _same_ as killing a creature because he happened to have sired you or trying to wipe out an entire species but thinking of Sif in Peggy's shoes he supposes it's bad enough.

"Did she skewer you?"

Steve laughs, sharp and sudden.

"I think she'd have liked to. She put three bullets into my shield with me behind it before it had been tested. I'll show you it, if you want. The shield's still marked where they struck."

He falls silent and Loki lets him gather himself a little before saying:

"So what happened?"

Steve shrugs.

"She gave me the cold shoulder for a bit. Then she gave me a second chance. Only, there was HYDRA to deal with, and Redskull. It was the last mission—the war was almost over. But there was the plane and the bombs. I never did make our date. Seventy years too late."

Steve looks... smaller, somehow. Hunched. Like Odin had, in the chamber. Like Thor had, before the destroyer.

He wonders if maybe it is just that he's not used to them being vulnerable. Being able to not just wound but _be_ wounded.

Loki swallows.

"In Asgard," he offers, "You would have had to pay a wergild to her to cover her loss of honour for the betrayal. Chosen by her. She must have loved you a lot, I think, to demand merely time and nothing."

Steve looks up then.

"Thanks. I... she did. She cared. Enough to give me another chance even when I'd done _that._ Enough to accept that I wasn't perfect and that I would never be."

Like Thor.

_Sentiment._

A cruel dagger thrust. And a broken bridge he can never now recross.

"And it's not just about that second chance," Steve says, "I wasn't there for her. Not after the ice. Not after I chose that method to stop the ship. I was sleeping in the ice and I couldn't do anything for anyone."

"It's not your fault if you _cannot_ do anything," Loki says, swiftly.

And then he bites his tongue because what is true for Steve is true for him and he doesn't like it. Doesn't _like_ the idea of saying so many things he hates himself for are not his fault. But then, 'cannot' isn't the same as ' _could_ not', so maybe the two cases are not the same.

Steve turns then and looks at him.

His eyes are calmer now.

"I know. It's just, I guess what I'm saying is that it hurts but I can't _change_ the fact that I couldn't-didn't-help them. I can only work on doing the best job I can _now._ It's all anyone can do. And... if you can take that, when you're prepared to accept that, that's when you offer someone a second chance."

"It isn't the _same._ You crashed your ship to save New York. I-," he can't say it.

Can't say that he wanted to kill an entire race because he hoped it would somehow make him worthy. Can't say how it felt to be _held_ by Frigga for the first time in years after saving Odin only to lose it all the instant Thor came home. Can't speak of his desperation for something, anything, resembling the pride and love he craved in Odin's eye.

Can't describe that _look._

Knowing, then, that nothing he could ever do would wipe the disgrace of being _him_ from anyone's eyes.

Letting go.

"You what?" Steve prods, gently.

He shakes his head mutely.

"You're shivering," Steve says sharply, then, more loudly, "Jarvis? Would you mind turning the heating on?"

"Not at all, Captain Rogers," Jarvis says agreeably.

And then there's warm air blowing in from somewhere and all he wants to do is melt into it.

And he's tired, suddenly, of talking. Tired of bearing his heart on its platter and flinching away from the knife he fears but which never seems to come.

"Are you still waiting for the right partner?" he asks.

It's a little sudden. But Steve just shrugs.

"I missed her. Seventy years too late, remember? We were going to go to the Stork Club, but it's just Paley Park now. I went there when I woke. Eight o'clock, on the dot. I don't really know why. I knew she wouldn't be there."

"Why not?"

"She died."

The words are simple and they hang there in the suddenly dead air.

_She died._

"Who killed her?"

Steve swallows sharply.

"No one, Loki. It was just. She was old, you know? It happens to us humans. It's just... I'd have liked to say goodbye. But that's selfish. She had a good life, up till the end. She got dementia. And I wasn't there for her and I wish I could have been, in the home. I know they're supposed to be comfortable but it always seemed such a lonely way to go."

_Such a lonely way to go._

He wants to know what dementia is, but there is the Internet. And he'd be blind to miss how this is hurting Steve.

"I know how to dance," he says, abruptly, "We both do, Thor and I. We used to practice, not much at first, but often later, after Odin said he wouldn't take us to the foreign courts if we couldn't 'acquit ourselves in a manner befitting of our station'. I could- I'm not a woman, or the right partner. But if you wanted to learn..."

He lets the almost-offer hang there, waiting.

The room is warmer now. Not hot, but no longer so cold that he is shaking.

"You'd... I'd like that," Steve says, and he sounds gruff and raw and Loki doesn't know why.

And then he says:

"Who danced the woman's steps?"

Loki grins.

And slowly, slowly his heart slips back into place and the fear, the tension, is fading.

"Both of us. Thor tried to argue that since I was younger it was my duty to follow. But since I argued that we both needed to know how to lead to enter the courts he agreed, perforce, to take it in turns. Actually, I could have summoned clones for both of us to practice on or persuaded Amora to help but his face always went so delightfully _red."_

"Troll," Steve says.

"Always. Though I own it was more fun to do so to Thor _after_ he told me my magic and my children practically made me a woman anyway."

"That, I think, was unfair of him. And unwise," Steve says, but he's grinning too now.

"Very."

And then Steve is making his way over to him and standing there with... not quite awkwardness. But with more than a little uncertainty.

"So..." he says, "Um. How do we do this? And sorry in advance if I step on your feet."

He isn't Thor. Isn't the _same,_ but it's enough.

 _More_ than just enough.

And he thinks, as he corrects Steve's position, that maybe, maybe he was wrong. Wrong to think talking couldn't help.

Because though his heart feels like it's been scoured, he feels lighter, _cleaner_ somehow, inside.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony wakes feeling like twenty dwarves have taken to mining his brain. Loudly. With pointy picks.

"Jarvis," he moans, "Why did I wake?"

"That is not a question I am able to answer, sir."

"Pretend I didn't. Wake, I mean. And if anyone asks I'm not. I'm still snoring."

"Yes, sir."

His eyes are still shut but even so, the brightness is piercing.

"And Jarvis? Turn off the lights."

"That would be the sun, sir."

The sun. The _sun?_

Tony rolls back over, burying his face under the pillows.

Sleep is beckoning, dark and safe and-

There's a sound echoing through the rooms which other days might be a piercing 'Ding' but today is a clamour little short of torture.

"What the hell?"

"It would seen you have a text, sir. A Miss Romanoff."

Well shit.

Apparently he _will_ have to get up today after all.

He manages, through pure force of will, to prop himself up on one elbow.

"Water," he rasps.

"Ms Potts left some for you on the bedside table, sir."

He looks and he's on the wrong side of the bed but he can see it there and he _knew_ there was a reason he loved her.

Five minutes later he's managed to crawl over and drink some. He doesn't feel better, exactly. But he feels like he will feel better soon, which is more than he usually feels like when Pepper isn't here to do things like that for him.

"Jarvis? Where's my phone?"

"Under your bed, sir."

"Huh," he says intelligently.

And then he reaches down and he _really_ shouldn't have done that but he has now so he might as well get his phone anyway.

He flicks it open on the second try.

_You three home today? If so, we'll be over by two. N.R_

After his third aborted attempt at texting a reply, Tony just tells Jarvis to tell her that, yep, they'll be here.

And then he flops back in bed.

"Jarvis? Tell the others about this. And if they ask, I'll be down in two hours."

"Yes, sir."

It's way too early in his day for this. It really, really is.


	23. Serum Research and Breaking In

Tony manages to drag himself down to the lounge by eleven.

It's a worthy feat; he's only half an hour later than he'd specified and he's showered, dressed _and_ coffee'd up.

He expects, being honest, to have a roomful of people waiting for him. A sort of controlled mass panic event like there'd been last time. Instead there's just Steve, writing with long, fluid strokes in a book which, now he squints, might actually be a sketchbook.

_Steve can draw?_

He makes his way over, lifting a banana from the fruit bowl as he moves past the table.

No reaction.

Tony sidles round a bit and says carelessly, "Where's Robbie?"

Steve's head jerks up sharply and he closes the book with a snap.

Apparently, the old look-over-the-shoulder technique really _is_ outdated.

And then Steve is talking and Tony reluctantly puts his sketchbook-acquiring plans on hold to pay attention.

"I think he's upstairs in your lab. Analysing the serum with Bruce. They said he'd—Bruce that is—had done a couple of tests last night, but I'm not sure what they were or what they showed. They were going to take a look."

"They say which lab?" Tony asks, peeling back the yellow skin of his fruit and taking a bite.

Not that he _can't_ ask Jarvis. But still. Common politeness and all that.

"Not that I remember, sorry. You have more than just the—? Oh. Right. The 'R and D' _floors_. No, I'm afraid I didn't think to check."

Tony waves the banana dismissively at him

"It's fine, Cap. I've got Jarvis. He'll tell me. Though just out of interest, do you know how they took the news?"

He doesn't bother to specify what 'the news' is.

"I think they took it fairly well. Bruce might have asked if you'd told Natasha and Clint he'd be here. Loki told him he highly doubted you had remembered. But it doesn't really matter. We're all friends, right? I doubt they'd have the reaction they did to Loki."

Tony gives that a few seconds of consideration.

"Yeah. Let's just say I think Clint'd be a very flat bug on a windscreen if he pulled the stunt on Bruce that he did on Robbie."

"I'm not sure that's a joking matter," Steve frowns.

Tony shrugs and makes his way over to the fridge.

"Yeah?" he tosses back over his shoulder, "But you do have to admit the mental image is kind of something."

"Disturbing? Horr—"

"I was thinking 'funny'. Like, mental image funny rather than real funny, but _funny_. Besides, it's not like Bruce would ever do that. Not unless Clint did try to stick an arrow in him and I'd take flat Clint ahead of dead Bruce any day."

There are a few moments of silence. He's sure Steve is making some sort of deep, wise-slash-emotional expression behind him, but right now, rummaging through the contents of his fridge, he can't see what it is.

There's orange juice here.

It's Loki's, technically, if only in the sense that it's usually him who drinks it.

Tony pours himself a glass and snags a piece of cold pizza from near the back of the fridge which looks okay and smells okay and which he never, _ever_ intends to—

"How old is that?" Steve says.

Tony sighs.

"You know, I was trying _not_ to ask myself that," he says.

Steve's lips press together to form a thin line.

For a moment, he thinks the supersoldier will try to tell him what he can and cannot eat. Retorts like 'this is my house' and 'I know you're ninety but you're _not_ my nanny' spring to mind, just waiting to be used.

And then Steve shrugs.

"Oh well. It's your choice, I suppose. But I think I saw that there almost two weeks ago. If it's the pepperoni one."

Tony looks.

It _is_.

"... Right."

There are times when he _hates_ Steve's photographic memory.

Ten minutes, one discarded piece of pizza and a plate of waffles later, Tony joins Steve on the couch.

It's odd, in a way, not to eat by himself. But he can't deny that it's more fun to talk with and needle Steve than it is to eat alone.

"So," he says, between mouthfuls, "What were you drawing?"

Bright red blooms over the supersoldier's face.

"Just... stuff," Steve says.

_Guilty conscience?_

He _so_ needs to get hold of the sketchbook.

"Stuff hmm?"

And then Steve is muttering an excuse about 'the gym' and 'exercise' and leaving the room as fast as he can without being accused of running.

He takes the book with him.

Tony grins after his retreating form.

Then he turns back to his meal.

It looks like he will be eating alone this morning after all.

OoOoOoOoO

Bruce, it transpires, is on floor eighty seven.

And as it turns out, he has a _lot_ of things going. He has microbial analyses underway. There are automated spectrometers running. He even has some sort of protein analysis in place which keeps going on a loop through a mass spec and there are data readouts on the computer monitors everywhere _._

Candy land, Tony had said.

He doesn't think he's wrong.

By the time he gets up there, it's apparently break time.

Bruce and Loki are both in the little side room he put in just for eating purposes and they're both de-gloved and de-coated. Bruce is sitting on a table near the wall sipping coffee with obvious relish and Loki is leaning against it talking.

Or, unless Tony misses his guess, bombarding him with an unending stream of questions.

He waits a moment or two for them to notice him, and then Bruce is giving him a smile and a wave and Loki's looking about with a half questioning:

"Tony?"

He wonders, suddenly, when it was that he stopped being 'Stark'. Sometime yesterday, he thinks, but yesterday is hard to remember properly. Lost in a haze of stress and alcohol and sleeplessness.

He likes it though. Likes not being just 'Stark'.

"Tony?" Loki repeats.

Oh. Right.

"Yeah?" he says.

"Did you get Romanoff to compromise their security system?" the demigod demands.

"Um, no?" he tries.

He walks over past the coffee machine, the cupboards and a printer and joins them, sitting down next to Bruce. Loki is frowning, and he raises a placating hand before the other can speak.

"C'mon, Robbie. What if the phone had been bugged?"

Loki pushes himself away from the wall and starts to pace. Tony _thinks_ that either means he's stressed or he's nervous but he's not quite sure which.

Bruce looks between them mildly for a bit. Then he squares his shoulders and puts his empty coffee cup in the recycling bin.

Rising, he makes his way over to the computers.

No help _there_ then.

Loki's eyes remain fixed on Tony.

"You could not have notified her? Found some way to persuade her to put the Intel in place before-?"

Tony shrugs.

"I could have encrypted it, yeah. But it wasn't like that was my top priority. I was sleeping. You know. That thing some people _do_ when they've been staying up all night for friends getting an undetectable decryption virus right?"

And, sure, it's a little pointed. But it's worth it to see the hardness melt from the sharp green eyes.

"Well, can you not tell her to do so now?" Loki asks, more reasonably.

He gives that a few second's thought.

"Alright, alright. I'll send it to her. But if anything goes wrong, I blame you."

Loki just offers him another one of his lopsided grins.

"Most do. Just get it to her, Tony. I grow weary of this waiting."

 _Most do_.

Tony decides not to think too deeply about that one. Instead he withdraws his phone and starts tapping away at the touch screen.

After a moment or two he looks up.

"What do you reckon the odds are, Robbie, that if I were to ask really, really nicely, you'd grab me a coffee?"

"You are barely two meters from the machine," Loki objects.

"You're one and you're pacing anyway," Tony parries, "I'm encrypting data here."

Loki gives him a long look. Possibly because he is on his phone and could be doing anything. And then he sighs and moves over to the machine. He stands there next to it, brow furrowed in thought, and it takes Tony longer than it should to realise the demigod isn't doing anything.

"Robbie? Coffee?"

Loki raises an eyebrow elegantly.

"You have yet to ask nicely, Tony," he explains sweetly.

Bruce, still examining data, snorts.

Tony groans.

"Robbie, would you _mind_ grabbing me a coffee?"

Nothing.

"Please?" he adds grudgingly.

Loki smirks. Bastard.

But he _does_ get the coffee and it's bitter and dark and exactly the way Tony likes it.

"You, Robbie are a-,"

"-Guys," Bruce cuts in, "If you have a moment, take a look at these readings."

There's something in his voice. Something odd and tight which makes the smile slip from Loki's face like wet paint and makes him cross the room to Banner in less than three seconds.

"Jarvis? Encrypt the program and send it, would you?"

"Yes, sir."

He knows it's bad when Loki doesn't react to that. And then he's risen, coffee in hand, and joined them.

According to the charts, there seems to be just one substance in the serum. And Tony hasn't the faintest clue what it is, just that it seems to emit the faintest trace of radiation. Radiation at a frequency which is spiking up in every blood sample from himself Bruce has analysed.

"Whatever it was, buddy, they got you with it real good," Tony says.

"Yes," Bruce agrees, rubbing his arm reflexively, "Yes, they did."

"But it does not seem to be causing you harm?" Loki demands sharply.

"No. Though I'd assumed—but I guess the other guy would have taken a few seconds or so to come out. But no, it doesn't seem to be doing anything. Just... sitting there."

"So it is waiting," Loki concludes, "Not for your transformation, or else it would have been triggered before now. Unless this is a residue?"

"I don't _know_ ," Bruce says, frowning.

And that's just it, isn't it? There's way, way too much about this whole situation they don't know and Tony doesn't like it.

"So, what do we do?" he asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Loki starting to pacing again.

"Not much we can do," Bruce says, eventually, "I'll keep on trying to work out what it does, but until we know..."

He trails off with a shrug and a grimace.

Tony forces himself to nod and tries not to think about palladium poisoning his blood and tearing him apart from the inside. Of utter helplessness in knowing that he was being killed by what he'd needed to keep him alive and there was no choice, no cure he could create, which would make that go away.

It's _stupid_ because he is probably just being pessimistic and no one _knows_ it does anything bad. But still...

"Be back in a minute," he says.

And then he leaves them somewhat abruptly and stalks away in search of a proper drink _._

The lounge. He needs the loungeroom. All the best scotch is there.

There's no one in there when he arrives, so he pours himself a generous tumbler and takes a deep drought. And then he makes the very big mistake of sitting down and putting his still slightly-aching head back on the headrest.

He doesn't remember much more of the morning.

OoOoOoOoO

By the time he and Banner have finished discussing possible solutions to the serum, ranging from finding the active sights and determining what it is in the serum which is causing the radiation to seeing how their connection to the cells to which they are bound can be cleaved, it is well past one.

Tony still hasn't returned.

It's Loki who suggests they should head downstairs to wait.

"Or at least, I will go. I suppose it is your decision whether you wish to come or not," he amends.

"I'll come. Saves you the trouble of explaining everything twice," Banner says.

He nods because there really isn't a lot he can say to that.

And then they're in the elevator heading down.

Loki casts about blindly for something to say which isn't _'So, do you think the serum in your blood will eventually kill you?'_

"Did you enjoy Shrek?" he manages to produce.

Banner shrugs.

"It wasn't bad. Not exactly my thing, but not bad."

It's a safe enough topic so he latches onto it.

Floor 87.

"Oh? Why not?"

"I guess because I'm something of a cynic," Banner says apologetically, "By which I mean, they do good, they get good. The lonely ogre saves lives and stops scaring people and gets loved. Evil gets eaten by the dragon. I just prefer something a little less... perfect."

Loki finds himself reluctantly curious.

"So what do you like? People to not _bother_ trying to overcome their baser selves? To just... give in?"

The idea is distasteful. If he wants to see _that_ , he has only to look at himself. But perhaps it is different for Banner.

"Not exactly," the mortal says, rubbing his nose awkwardly.

Floor 69.

Loki keeps on looking at him expectantly.

"Okay, okay. Since you're that interested. I like watching movies where people do the right thing and _don't_ get the glory. Where they risk their lives or give up their time and no one tells them, at the end of the day, 'good job'. Ever seen 'Dark Knight'?"

"I... no."

_Why would you want that for them?_

"You should. It's good. Dark, but good."

There's silence for another ten floors.

"Why?" Loki blurts out, "Why would you wish to watch someone trying and trying to gain the recognition they deserve and failing at every last turn?"

"It's not... I like movies where it's not _about_ the recognition. Where it's about helping or serving others or stopping evil and even when no one knows the fact that they've done it is enough."

Loki hesitates, frowning.

"Why?"

Banner doesn't really look at him when he says:

"Wish fulfillment, mostly. With what I am well... let's just say I don't often get praise for saving cities or helping people. In lots of cases I do almost as much harm as I stop, at least in terms of property damage. And so I try to remember that it's not _about_ me—whether or not people like me at the end. I admire the characters that can actually do that. That _have_ to do that and keep going anyway."

And then the elevator has pinged and Banner's stepping out and walking to the loungeroom. Loki finds himself oddly grateful. He doesn't know what the right thing is to say.

He enters the room a few paces behind Banner.

Tony is in one of the couches, snoring. Steve is sitting a few chairs away.

"Tony?" Loki says.

No answer.

"He was like that when I came up here," Steve grins.

"Should we wake him?" Banner asks.

"... Yes," Loki says, reluctantly, glancing at the clock, "It is two now."

No one objects.

He takes a step closer to the snoring man.

"Tony," he says, then, more sharply, " _Tony_."

Still nothing.

"Give him a shake," Banner suggests.

And Tony isn't Steve but he's _Tony_ and Loki supposes touching him might not be so very bad.

He does so.

This time the brown eyes open wide and dark.

"R'b? Don't'll Pepr."

Loki lets go of his shoulder and fights an urge to smirk. And then Jarvis' voice is echoing through the room.

"Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton are waiting in the lobby, Sir."

And now Tony does manage to sit up.

"Send'm up," he rasps.

OoOoOoOoO

By the time everyone's upstairs and Clint has received his drink and Tasha's taken off her lethally high heels, it's ten past two and he's managed to rise and stretch and stop yawning every thirty seconds.

They're all sitting around in the chairs, and if Clint is still eying Loki a bit warily and Tasha is a little twitchy round Bruce, well, it's not like Tony can really blame either of them for it.

Clint is Clint and the fact that Bruce was here _was_ sort of sprung on them.

"So," Steve says, "You have news?"

Tasha nods.

"SHIELD know we know something. I won't bore you with the subtleties-"

"-Thanks," Tony interjects.

She ignores him.

"But it will suffice to say that they think we are moving to uncover Fury's 'corruption'. I've been moved to the less dangerous assignments closer to home. Clint says he's had the same thing. And I've been approached by people with information about what Fury is _'really'_ up to who shouldn't be in a position to have information at all, let alone know I'm looking for it."

Clint nods.

"What's more, they're good. Like, if I didn't know we were looking for evidence of a high placed traitor I'd say they were just wrong place. Wrong time. Just happened to know too much and came to us 'cause we were 'Avengers' and they were scared."

"And how do you know they weren't?" Bruce says.

"Too much of a coincidence," Clint says simply, "If they'd known, there'd have been rumours before this. I mean, a bucket full of agents kept imprisoned in some Top Secret HYDRA lair? Fury in league with Doom? They'd have no reason to keep that from us and no paper pusher would know a fuck about that and just _happen_ to say so right now. And Fury's not the sort of idiot to discuss that openly."

Bruce still looks doubtful.

Tony's torn.

He'd like to say Fury wasn't as inefficient as that.

But he'd liked Fury, a little. The man _had_ saved his life. And remembering back to that rescue, the broken crimson mess that was Loki in that cell-

Well. That was SHIELD HQ. It was hard to avoid the feeling that either the man was shockingly incompetent or, more chillingly, had known. Not authorised, perhaps, but known. And why hadn't he stopped it?

_Option one. I don't matter. I am a pawn._

In a way he almost wishes he'd been wrong about every assumption of efficiency he'd ever made about Fury.

He _wants_ it to be option two.

And then he jerks himself out of his thoughts because they are _not_ helping.

"... get the impression though," Tasha is saying, "that we are moving too slowly. It's been, what, two weeks? Since you found Loki? And you rescued him within _hours_ of locating him. Well, I got the impression they were wondering what was taking us so long. Not much. An impatient look, sometimes, where there shouldn't have been. And fear. As though..."

She trails off and Clint finishes for her, "As though we'd thrown something with our inaction. As though they _need_ us to act. I'm getting the impression here, what with the excess of info pouring in, that some nut job really wants us to get a move on with booting out Fury. Enough to risk overplaying their hand for it."

Loki inclines his head, eyes resting thoughtfully on Bruce.

"We expected them to want that," he says.

 _"You_ expected that," Clint corrects him, "And _damn_ it's hard to think of you on our side. I just went along with it because Steve and Tony believed you and you looked like shit. Didn't see the harm in making SHIELD squirm."

The demigod shoots him a half-glare.

There's a few minutes of silence. Then Tony manages to rouse himself.

"So... Did you manage to knock out their system?"

"Yeah. We did. But a little more _notice_ next time might be nice," Clint says.

"Sorry, Legolas. I wasn't thinking clearly when I woke. In my defence, you guys woke me at eight thirty. Seriously, _eight thirty."_

Clint snorts at that.

"Yeah? You gave us ten minutes, Tony."

"I could have implemented it in-,"

"-Speaking of _implementing_ , Tony," Loki interjects, "Not that your banter is not amusing _..."_

Tony takes a deep drink and becomes aware that everyone stares at him expectantly.

And so, with a sigh, Tony puts his cup down and opens his most secure laptop.

"Jarvis? Activate 'Operation Waternoose'."

He's not sweating. He's totally not sweating.

"And if they detect us, shut us down before they can trace us," he adds.

"Yes, sir."

"You think there is a chance of that?" Loki demands.

"Um, yeah. Security. Performance issues," Tony blathers.

The loading bar is at 44 percent.

"And I want everything on serums and Polt copied across first. Other stuff later."

"Yes, sir."

Loading bar 79 percent.

The air seems to catch in his lungs as he watches the little blue bar. Waiting for 'virus detected'. For the virus to fail. For Fury to suddenly step out of the shadows behind them in all his black coated glory.

None of them do.

Loading bar 99 percent.

They're _in._

And every single dirty secret SHIELD ever kept is theirs.


	24. Risk

No one says anything as the downloading process begins.

Loki feels tight inside, and coiled and he _shouldn't_ because there's no reason to think anything will go wrong now and nothing yet has. But the feeling is there and it will not go away.

He doesn't know if the rest of them feel the same. He suspects so, though, because he's never known them to be so quiet for so long.

Even Tony's slouched down wearily, chin resting on one hand.

It ten minutes before the mortal jerks himself up says:

"So. Anyone else feel like Jabba the Hutt decided to take a break from eating frogs and plonked himself down on their chests instead?"

Loki snorts.

So, unsurprisingly, does Barton.

The archer sounds strained and taut and it occurs to Loki to wonder if he sounds just as bad. Possibly. Probably. There are so many things he fears will go wrong with this plan. So many 'What ifs?'. What if they are detected? What if they are traced to here? What if Fury always knew everything and this entire scheme has been produced by his imagination? What if they are wrong about Polt? What if they make him go _back._

If. If. If.

He hates them. Hates the questions and the doubts which make his fingers cold and white and the rest of him somehow ache everywhere deep inside. Which make it hard to focus, to _think,_ like he should.

"Jabba was displaced from my chest by the Dursleys half an hour ago. All of them," he says, when no one else talks, and it's worth sounding utterly foolish to see the dawning grin on the genius' face.

"Not sure Petunia adds all that much to anything," Barton observes.

"She is the snowflake which broke the oaken bough. The mead which-,"

"-So in closing, Robbie, your chest will _never_ recover."

"What do you think the odds are, Tony," Romanoff says coolly, "That you could get Jarvis to show us what you are transferring? Now. While we wait."

Tony shuffles away from him to face her.

"Kind of. Not much control over what we're seeing and it'd scroll past pretty fast, but sure. If you want to do that now. Like I said, limited control. Rushed program and all that," he stresses.

"I do want it."

Steve, too, is leaning forwards a little. Only Bruce seems unmoved. But perhaps that is just because the man is more guarded and that he knows him less well.

Tony shrugs and gulps his drink again.

"Okay, Okay. Jarvis? Play the data read outs, will you? The stuff you're transferring while you do it."

"Yes, sir."

And then information and more information is scrolling past and it's barely there long enough to read and it's so, so frustrating he wants to scream at it to stop.

But he can't because Tony _might_ and this is so much more than the blackness of nothing while he waits the hours it will take for everything to download.

And so he is silent.

All he can do is watch.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony sits there, eyes fixed on the screen, as file after file comes up.

Serum research. Bruce. Steve.

Tony's brain is stuck in gear one because, sure, he'd snarked about it on the Helicarrier but they actually have them. Files labelled 'dangerous' and 'possible threat' which are just not logically _possible_ to associate with Steve.

And then the second wave of info's scrolling past.

Polt, it transpires, is actually _Arnold_ Polt. And according to his file, he's a paunchy sixty-something looking gentleman with a fierce, hawk-like nose, forbidding cheekbones and deep, dark eyes. He looks like he wouldn't recognise fun if it hit him in the face with Thor's hammer.

Or at least, that's the impression he's getting from the split-second photos which are flitting across the screen.

"That's him," Clint says.

"Your insight is invaluable, Barton. I would _never_ have guessed that without your input," Loki observes from across Tony's other side.

"Hey, it's been a while is all. I swear he's put on weight. But there used to be bets on when he was director on who could make him actually smile at something. He'd always have that exact expression of fucking dedication and- and 'laughter? I've never heard of it' going on."

Tony snorts.

Loki doesn't, and they really need to watch that and now isn't the time so he puts that thought in his mental freezer and goes back to the stuff he should be thinking about.

Like Bruce and Steve being labelled as potential threats.

Like Polt's name coming up in research project after research project on serum replication. Serum curing. X-gene research.

Like, oddly, how Polt's name is _not_ being included in the latest serum research project, whatever it is.

He tears his gaze away from the terminal long enough to look around.

Clint looks confused. Tasha's eyes are narrowed shrewdly in an expression he labels 'suspicious as hell'. Steve is frowning. Bruce is looking like he has one massive shield around his emotions Tony'll have to work his way around if he wants to know what the man's _actually_ thinking, and he's still working on how to do that.

Loki looks glued. Like all the answers in the world are contained in those pixels and he is physically incapable of looking away and possibly missing one. Though now he looks a bit closer he can see the impatience—the fear—buried beneath it all. But he suspects that's in all of them.

"Anyone else want to watch a movie while we wait?" he blurts out.

Clint looks doubtful.

"I do," Steve says, "It sure beats getting worked up over the words we only just manage to catch and which might not be relevant at all."

"I second that," Bruce says.

"Well, I do not," Loki sneers, "What if something goes wrong?"

"What if it does? Jarvis'll shut it down and alert us like he would have done _anyway._ Sitting there sending out vibes isn't going to change anything," Tony says reasonably.

"It might," Loki mutters obstinately.

"What are you planning on watching," Clint asks cautiously.

"Ha! You _do_ want to watch one," Tony crows.

"We generally decide when we all sit down. Together," Steve says, eyes lingering on Loki for a bit, "Or else someone just suggests one and if there are no objections we go with it. But obviously there's no point in choosing before we know who is watching."

"... Alright. Fine. I'm in. At least it'll make the time pass faster," Clint says.

"Well, _I_ am not," Loki says firmly.

"And I am not," Tasha says, then, when both Tony and Clint start to object, "I don't watch movies when I'm this tense. Ruins the enjoyment. I'll watch the monitor or do things which I have to be tense for anyway."

After a short moment Tony shrugs reluctantly.

"Your choice."

"Yes. It is."

And then four of them are shuffling out of the lounge and into a side room and trying to work out what to pick. And Tony's trying not to feel bad about leaving Loki alone with Tasha and her killer legs and trying not to feel like watching movies without Loki while he's sitting there semi-alone and taut as Clint's bowstring isn't a sort of betrayal.

"He'll be okay," Steve says to him in a low voice, following his gaze, "He's tense, I know. But he's said he wants to stay here. Give him a chance to stand on his own—we're right here if he needs us and he knows how to find us."

Tony supposes he really, really _should._

His eyes linger on Tasha's legs.

"He beats me at sparring sometimes," Steve offers.

Tony blinks. How had Steve—? Never mind. It doesn't really matter.

But he can't deny he feels a bit better about going after hearing that.

They end up watching "The Fellowship of the Ring" because it's _epic._

And Tony's conscious, even as he laughs and tenses and wishes Aragorn had arrived two damn minutes _sooner_ for Boromir, that behind them the data is downloading. That Tasha is watching it with Loki.

That there is so much which could go wrong.

But at least, for a little while, the movie makes things fade.

Loki never does come in.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony might, Loki privately admits to himself, have had a point. Sitting here is not really very _fun._ Or useful.

It doesn't matter.

He wants to be here because he needs to know everything he can about everything that he shouldn't. The words are powerful here in Midgard, else why would anyone bother to conceal them? And he has been powerless for far too long.

But as the strangely haunting melody wails out softly from the side room he is conscious of a wish that he was there watching too.

The Lord of the Rings is fun.

He doesn't know how much time passes as he stares at the screen watching the words and the different files scroll past.

_Termination._

_Neutralisation._

_X-gene._

_Supermen._

_Serum._

_Serum._

_X-men._

_HYDRA._

_Polt._

_Serum._

The words run together in his mind until he half wondering if the X-men are a group of serum-ised HYDRA agents who need to be removed and he _knows_ that that's false because Barton had informed him about them months ago.

He's still staring at the screen and the fluid, ever changing words when he becomes aware he is being addressed.

"Loki?" Romanoff is saying.

Her tone suggests she's been doing this for some time.

"Yes?" he says, not moving his eyes from the monitor.

He can see her in his peripheral vision. There's no real need to acknowledge her further.

"You seem to be doing well. For what you had happen."

There is no emotion in her voice. He doesn't bother trying to read her face. Her expression is tenuously connected to her feelings at best and he has grown lazy. Too often these past weeks he catches himself simply trusting in words, in expressions, and not _looking_ to see if they are lies.

_Your ledger is dripping._

But Romanoff can lie well, he knows. And he does not know what she wants this time.

"I do seem to be, don't I?" he agrees, his voice every inch as bland as hers.

There is silence, but he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye which might be a nod. He doesn't respond to it. Part of him wishes she would drop the topic. But he knows she will not and she doesn't.

"Most people," she says, "Are worse than this. It takes them longer to recover."

He frowns.

"I am not 'most people'."

It's a weak parry at best. He's not surprised when she ignores it.

"But then," she muses, "It's the wounds which don't show that take the longest time to heal, isn't it? Which haunt you in the night. Which make it hard to reach out. To feel. Especially when it has happened more than once."

_Especially when it has happened more than once._

He feels cold, suddenly, deep inside.

How had she—?

"You would know, of course," he remarks lightly.

More words scroll past. Tesseract weapons. Phase II equipment. Investigation into Thanos' Staff and the Mind Gem, though not, it seems, under those names. Indeed, he doubts they know those names exist.

No more on the serum, it seems. Or Polt. But maybe they have passed the relevant information now.

It would all be so much more interesting if he hadn't understood the workings of Odin's treasure _centuries_ ago to an extent these mortals could only dream of achieving. And then new words are coming up and his eyes narrow despite himself.

_Einstein-Rosen Bridge._

_Jane Foster._

_Astrophysicist._

He stiffens.

Thor's... Jane, he supposes. He never did learn what they were to eachother. Just that she was more to Thor than he.

But it isn't important. He knew SHIELD were trying this. Selvig had said so.

"I do know," Romanoff is saying, "And I think you know that I do. Clint told me he had told you a lot. About all of us."

Loki remains silent.

"He also said you looked... not your best... when you stepped out of the portal. But you seemed fine to me. To all of us later, when we fought you."

Ah. So that is how she knows.

He doesn't _like_ where he thinks this might be going. But this is Romanoff, so he doesn't really expect to.

He respects her, of course. But he does not delude himself into thinking she might like him. He doesn't _need_ her to be a friend like Tony and Steve and maybe Bruce who answers all his questions after everything he's done and doesn't seem to have to _know_ that he has suffered badly to give him a second chance.

But... she is not making him tell her. Not yet. It is still his choice if he wants to answer.

He steels himself and focus' on Steve and not hating himself too much and remarks, idly, "Yes, well, my allies were not exactly friendly beings. And they were rather... insistent, in their demands for the tesseract. As was their leader. Fortunately for me, I heal quickly."

_I always have._

More words scroll past.

Fury's personal file.

Coulson's.

"They tortured you too?" Romanoff asks.

_White fire and burning claws and—_

He shrugs.

Has she not already guessed this?

And then he turns away from the now-useless screen and snares her gaze with his own.

He doesn't know what is in his eyes. Only that she does not seem able to look away. But then, he reminds himself, her eyes are as deceptive as her words.

"Understand this, Romanoff. I had been falling through the void for a very, very long time after—What they demanded, what they did, was a price I would have _gladly_ paid anyone who demanded it as I drifted. You do not know—you _cannot_ know—how it feels to be alone for so long you forget how to shape the words which were once as sharp as any blade. To be cold for so long that you forget how to feel. To see the endless reaches of space and know that at the end of everything there is only horror and _nothing_. To suffer without food, without water, as the time stretches onwards to infinity and yet be rejected even by death herself when you lower yourself to beg for her. You do not _know._ I do. And when they talked to me, when they—" he breaks off.

 _Helpless. Screaming_. _Pain._

There's a dead moment of silence and he is aware, dully, that he needs to go on. That he loses this game if he cannot. Because he needs her to know why he does not require her pity. Why he does not deserve it. Has to tell her the _truth._

_Worthless. Nothing._

"I did not know how to do what they wished, in the beginning. I could barely form my own words, much less wield my magic. They were... displeased. But I could _feel_. I did not enjoy what I felt but it was _worth_ that to feel again. And they gave me food, when it pleased them. Sometimes I was even able to sleep. When I knew they wanted the tesseract— when I _knew_ that it was a choice between them and the Allfather—I was _glad_ to serve them. To lead them. At least they never _pretended_ to care. Understanding and obedience were always enough."

False or not, he can _see_ the questions in her eyes. He doesn't answer them. Just curls his lips up into something vaguely resembling a smile and makes her ask.

She doesn't take too long to do so.

"So why didn't you just take it and leave if that was your objective? Why try to conquer us?"

It is... not what he expected. She has ignored his most gaping wounds.

"I did not just give them what they demanded because I was here and they were there. Without me, they were but words. And I _knew_ they would serve me for the tesseract they craved, and I needed to rule because—" _I did not wish to be made to kneel again. I did not_ wish _to be dragged back before the Allfather once more in chains and see his pity and his disappointment. His contempt._

He can't say it. Can't force out the selfish, miserable words. He doesn't try to complete the sentence.

"I miscalculated, I admit," he says instead, "I had assumed that the Allfather no longer cared for Midgard. That if I could conquer here, I might be— but I was wrong, of course. I underestimated you. All of you. And Thor did come, after all."

_Just not for me. Not really._

He wonders if she will call him a monster again.

"Would you do it again?" she asks instead.

The instinctive 'no' sticks in his throat. Because he doesn't _know._ He wants to say no because that is what she will expect and understand. But she is too much like him, he thinks, for the simple lies to be convincing. The care Thor feels so easily for those he does not know, that Steve and Tony feel, doesn't seem to exist within him. As though some part of him shrinks now from having so many attachments or was never capable of forming them at all.

"I might. But I do not think I would," he says at last, "I would not care to be on the opposite side of the battlefield to Steve or Tony again. Or Banner."

It is as much of the truth as he knows how to give.

"Because you fear them?" she says.

He knows it's deliberate but he responds anyway, narrowing his eyes to a glare.

"Because they helped me and asked for nothing in return. Because they do not treat me in the manner I deserve. And I find that I do not want them to start doing so."

And then something is softening, slightly, in her eyes. As though, somehow, what he is able to offer is enough for her.

A part of him wants to respond, but he knows it's deliberate. False.

Then:

"I was the same with Clint," she says, and there's something buried in her tone he remembers from that conversation in the cell.

Barton. Always it is Barton, with her.

And he wonders then, with sudden insight, if maybe he was wrong on the Helicarrier. If, perhaps, her lie was not in faking her wound but in pretending his words had never drawn blood at all. And, moments later, if it even _matters_ so long as no one can ever really tell.

Only, to him, it does.

There's a moment more of silence. He can hear the sound of steel against steel through the doorway of the other room and he wonders, now that the interesting information has passed, if perhaps he should join them. He suspects they are either at Weathertop or Moria.

And then Romanoff rises, stretches and asks:

"Have you ever played Risk?"

"No," he says shortly, eyeing her for a moment or two.

Her emotions are buried again beneath a layer of politeness. As if they had ever existed at all.

"Would you like to learn?" she says.

He doesn't know. But...

"Why not? You have it here?" he asks.

"Yes. Tony used to play it with me sometimes, and Pepper. Back when we had more time."

There's a story behind that he probably should ask to hear, but before he can she's stalking away in search of whatever 'Risk' is. A squarish board game, apparently, with cards and dice and little armies. The aim, it seems, is conquering Midgard. He can almost laugh at the irony.

As it happens, the game turns out to be chaotic, tense and entirely, entirely too much fun to play when stretched to the breaking point anyway.

She wins the first two games.

They're half way through a third when Jarvis' voice says: "Download complete, sir," and he realises it has been hours since they started.

And then everyone else is shuffling out of the darkened side room blinking owlishly in the sudden brightness.

Barton is openly rubbing his eyes and even Steve looks a little bleary.

"Okay," Tony says, drawing out the syllables, "Well. That went _way_ better than I thought it might. Jarvis, cut the connection, delete the entry. Then pull up the data. And hope like hell they haven't been laughing behind their sleeves at us the whole time I guess."

Bruce mumbles something that sounds like, "Now that's a cheerful thought."

Barton is eying Loki like he's grown a second head. Possibly because Loki and Romanoff are still sprawled out on the ground like mortal six-year-olds, flushed with a mixture of frustration and triumph, and there are little pieces covering the continent's everywhere and clustering thickly about the edges.

Loki makes himself stop grinning and rises to his feet with fluid grace.

He _would_ offer Romanoff a hand, but he suspects she would take that as an insult to her competence. He knows Sif tended to. And besides, it isn't like either of them think she needs one.

"Which information are we looking at first? The information on the serum or that on Polt?" Loki asks.

"The serum," Steve and Bruce both say.

Tony shrugs and nods.

"Okay. Serum. Jarvis, bring it up. Then Polt. Time to see just what sort of stunt SHIELD has been trying to pull."

OoOoOoOoO

The most interesting thing, Tony thinks after they're done, is the lack of _badness_ about Polt. He seems enthusiastic about funding, safety and SHIELD in general and his personal file is thinner than Rick the bottom-floor acne-covered paper pusher.

There's no mention anywhere of HYDRA or a wife.

 _Guilty_ , Tony mentally shouts at the flabby, unsmiling dirt bag.

And there's not the slimmest shred of proof anywhere but he doesn't think he's alone.

The serum research on the other hand...

There's research on how to create the Super Serum. Which doesn't seem to have been too successful, but hey. Points to SHIELD for replicating the strength bit, even if there were _way_ too many side effects. There's surprisingly little about Bruce himself, but there's an excess on someone called Blonsky who apparently had a bad reaction to the combo of the superserum and extract of Bruce.

There's something about a reverse serum to Hulking, too, even if it is only individual transformations.

Bruce's expression is shuttered.

"I would have given much to have a vial of that available when I first met your Hulk," Loki says regretfully.

Tony snorts. Surprisingly, Bruce does too.

Steve just shakes his head.

The top secret research serum on the other hand... well. No one laughs at that.

There's nothing remotely funny about the cold, impersonal words which seem to burn his eyes just looking at them.

_Designed to neutralise the X-men should they turn rogue... Only to be put into effect in the case of a major loss of control... Dangerous to the human race, of which they are, by design or chance, no longer a part..._

And it's there, the serum. Or pictures of it. A yellowish thing designed to float through water systems. Be in food. In the air. And the only catch is that the only thing it'll bond to is a pre-serum which in turn will only bond to the X-gene. Any X-gene.

_Though in some cases it is advisable that the pre-serum be injected rather than inhaled for maximum effect..._

Loki's looking between the screen and Bruce and his lips have thinned to nonexistence.

And then:

_Project terminated by command of Director Fury. Pre-serum formula found to be stolen. Thief: Unknown._

_Statement: Until the thief is identified, all mutants will be at risk if the research is completed-There is nothing to suggest they will not take that too. This serum was designed as a deterrent, a last resort. Not as a weapon. As such, development on it will cease until such a time that we feel a genuine need for it._

_Final Status: Unknown. Data removed to private server._

_Access Level: Director_

Bruce is looking shuttered. Steve is looking furious. Tasha and Clint look like they've put on their poker faces and don't intend to take them off any time soon.

And Tony?

Tony downs an entire glass of scotch in one burning hit and says, for all of them:

"And if we'd followed his plan we'd have stuck the bastard right in there with the research he needs."


	25. Confusion, Explanations and Loki Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this Chapter goes to pointyearsrule over at ff.net, who helped me sort out what X-genes were and were, well, NOT, in terms of being mutants! (And to whom I apologise if I've stuffed anything up here too painfully)

"I don't get it," Clint says, "I mean... _SHIELD_ were planning to kill off all mutants? With a mass virus that is activated by some pre-serum thing?"

The laptop's still pulled up on the coffee table and everyone is sitting, or, in Loki's case, standing there, staring at the aborted research file in varying states of disbelief or confusion.

Or at least, he assumes they are because, frankly, the words don't make sense.

There's no _point_ to this that Tony can see. No need for the mind numbing complexity.

"No," Bruce says, pointing at the words, "Look at what it says. ' _If they become a danger to normal people_ '. They were planning on using it as a deterrent and releasing it on mutants if we threatened the humans who couldn't fight back. If we tried to pull a Magneto on them."

"We?" Steve queries, his tone a bit doubtful, "I thought mutants were just, well, the X-men. With X-genes and -,"

"-Hey, when did _you_ , Mr I-barely-get-electricity, learn about this?" Tony cuts in.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him and says simply:

"I 'get' electricity."

Tony shoots him a sceptical look.

"Just because I—never mind," Steve sighs, defeated. Then he adds, "And I don't get it really. The genes. Not the electricity. I _do_ get that. But I knew a couple of mutants once in the army. Back before the ice. Some people didn't treat them the same and I asked them why once."

He goes back to looking at Bruce expectantly.

"So, if you don't have an X-gene, why would you be counted as a mutant?"

"It depends which way you define it, I guess," Bruce says, "Yours is certainly the most common definition. It's not like people usually like calling themselves mutants—too many negative connotations. Like there's normal and there's _you_. In practical terms though, there's really not that much difference between being born with a genetic mutation and acquiring it later. It's just that the mutants _know_ where the gene is which grants them their powers. The rest of us don't."

"How are the mutations caused?" Loki asks, momentarily distracted.

Bruce rubs his nose thoughtfully.

Tony mentally groans.

And then the doctor opens his mouth and releases a stream of words about 'DNA replication', 'chromosomes', 'hypermutation' and 'ionisation effect' and normal people being more likely to get cancer or die and people like him getting, well, the Hulk.

Tony can sort of vaguely follow. A bit.

He'd crammed for biology once twenty years ago and there were the occasional parental claims by former flames to check with DNA evidence. So yes, he _sort_ of gets it.

Steve's eyes have a glazed look to them and Clint is openly lost.

Loki, by contrast, is frowning and nodding at what seem to be all the right parts. Tony chalks up the apparent understanding to actually knowing a bit about biology. And being interested _._

"So... if you had not acquired your Hulk, you would have died? He saved you?" Loki demands, when the doctor finishes his little speech.

"That's one way to look at it," Bruce concedes.

He sounds bleak. Flat.

And Tony, remembering back three or four months ago, has no trouble reading between the lines.

_I didn't see a way out. So I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out._

Tony leans forward suddenly and takes another mouthful of his scotch.

There's a brief quiet, then:

"For what it's worth, buddy, I'm glad he's got your back," he says, swallowing, "I think New York'd have a lot more flying space whales and a lot less people without you both."

Bruce seems to unclench a bit at that and he catches himself wondering if he _really_ has or if it's just wishful thinking.

He's never been that good with words.

There's a moment or two more of silence, and then Bruce squares his shoulders.

"Anyway though, all that aside, if you look at the way the file's worded... the _any_ X-gene bit... well, it looks to me like they found a way to identify any mutated DNA. And I don't think by 'X-gene' they mean the specific gene that Xavier's mob have. I think they mean ex-gene. Like ex-girlfriend. X-gene, as in, was once normal and isn't now. Same for the X-men bit. But I agree it's lazy of them. They should probably have differentiated between the two groups."

Tony wonders meanly if it's possible to sue SHIELD for stealing Xavier's names. And, moments later, if they even _are_ his.

He doesn't say so. Instead he slouches forwards on the couch, dredges up all his old DNA knowledge and says:

"Is that even possible? I mean, doesn't it take _years_ to do the whole gene identification thing? And aren't there heaps of them still totally unidentified? I mean, I haven't studied it but, well, SHIELD can't be _that_ advanced can they? Not enough to have a generalised serum that targets every superhero or supervillain?"

Bruce rubs his nose thoughtfully.

"I don't know," he admits, "I'd have said no but..."

"But the pre-serum is in _you_ ," Loki finishes for him.

"What?" Tasha demands.

And, belatedly, Tony remembers that, no, they hadn't told her. Hadn't informed either of the agents about that little detail.

"Banner was trailed by SHIELD agents for months. Around the time of my rescue, he was attacked he thinks, by three of their agents. His Hulk killed them but not before he was injected by what we think is the pre-serum," Loki says succinctly.

"What we suspect _might_ be," Tony expostulates.

"Well what else would it be?" Loki says impatiently and, Tony can't help feeling, tactlessly. But it's not like there are that many alternatives popping up in his mind either.

"Fuck," Clint says, _"Fuck."_

Before he can repeat himself too many more times, Tasha jumps in with a:

"And that happened before or after the rescue?"

"After. So near as I can work out, anyway," Bruce says, looking vaguely gratified by Clint's response.

She nods, slowly, like a piece of a puzzle has just clicked into place.

"They wanted us to hurry," she says, "That might explain it. If they miscalculated, if they acted on the assumption that you would act in hours or days like you did for Loki they'd be justified in attacking the Hulk... rushing their attack..."

"And then when we didn't," Steve says slowly, "They'd have known it was only a matter of time before he came to us. Did some investigating. And they knew then, if that happened, they'd be in trouble. Because we might find out what we have. They knew they'd overplayed their hand."

Loki nods at the supersoldier.

Tony frowns.

"So if they know he's here... we're in trouble?" he half states, half guesses.

"I think that is a safe bet," Loki says.

Which is sort of ironic, Tony thinks, given the bets the myths describe the demigod having made in the past.

"And moreover, unless Banner just _happens_ to have exactly the same genetic makeup as the true X-men and the radiation which struck him caused a mutation in such a way that he _happened_ to develop a true X-gene, I think we can assume it is a likely possibility that they have found a way to isolate any DNA with severe mutations," Loki says.

Tony feels chilled.

"So does that mean they could get something targeting Stark DNA? Tasha DNA?" he demands.

Loki shrugs and looks at Bruce. Tony follows his gaze.

"I'm not sure," Bruce admits, "Depends how they're testing for mutations really. I mean, if it's abnormal cellular processes, which'd be the logical thing to check for, I don't think yours would stand out."

" _I_ could have tested for them not so long ago," Loki says wistfully, stroking the metal collar about his neck, "With magic. It would have been so very _simple,_ now that I understand."

"Yeah," Tony says, willing to forgo the whole science versus magic argument for now, "But who with SHIELD would have magic? Aside from Strange."

"You don't ' _aside from'_ Strange," Clint says, air quotes and all, "It's like saying, who do SHIELD have whose a good archer aside from _me_."

Tony blinks because, sure, Strange had seemed competent. But not Clint-with-a-bow competent.

"He is," Tasha says coolly, reading his expression correctly, "If there had been magic for him to trace when Loki escaped, he'd have found it."

Something stirs in Loki's eyes. A hope, perhaps. Or fear.

"And he is the sort to condone," a sweeping gesture at the monitor screen, "this?"

"Nah," Clint says, "He's super powerful and a bit of an asshole sometimes but he's not into taking over earth. And I certainly can't see him doing genocide. He's one of the good guys. Besides, he's more of a freelance magic consultant than actually working for us."

Silence, for a bit, while everyone considers that.

"So how _do_ you think they're testing for mutant genes?" Tony asks, turning back to Bruce.

"I'm not sure. But... something to do with the radiation, maybe? Perhaps it tests for absorbance? Or sort of," he gestures with one fist for a moment or so, struggling for words, before giving up with an, "I really don't know. Whatever it is though, it does seem to have bonded quite happily to _my_ DNA."

"Do you think Steve is at risk too?" Tasha says.

Loki stiffens almost imperceptibly.

"Why should I be? I'm not mutated. That is, I don't have a mutant gene," Steve objects.

"Actually, you probably do," Bruce parries, managing to somehow sound apologetic and forceful at the same time, "I mean, do you think a normal person can do what you do?"

Steve frowns.

"He's got a point," Tony says, "I mean, there are bound to be _some_ genes coding for abnormal processes in you. I mean who can't get drunk? Seriously?"

Loki snorts.

"Of all his gifts, you _would_ pick that."

"But that isn't... I don't have powers. I was never exposed to gamma rays or anything except the serum. I'm just... a very tough human," Steve insists.

"So are they. Humans I mean. And most of them _are_ tough. Just because some shady Council-slash-SHIELD file called them 'X-men' and 'mutants' and thinks that having powers makes them somehow lesser beings doesn't mean they aren't human. They're just labels" Tony says.

"Not 'just'," Loki objects suddenly, "Labels, perhaps. But they are _never_ 'just' labels."

"They are when they're meaningless lies."

"But they _always_ have a meaning, Tony. Only, they tell you not what you _are_ but how others perceive you. And that is never 'just' a label."

Loki's eyes are distant and hard with memory.

No one says anything for a bit.

"Unless you don't give a _fuck_ what they think," Clint says bluntly.

Loki just shrugs.

"Perhaps," he concedes, "But you would, perhaps, be surprised to know just how often people _do_ care when they should not."

"Okay. Well. Whoever said that's an asshole," Tony says, "Whoever the file was quoting, I mean."

Loki's smile is almost genuine.

"Indeed."

"Wasn't there a cure for all this a while back?" Clint asks abruptly, "I seem to recall us needing to rebuild a bridge or two... Fury just about flipped his lid doing damage control."

"People thought so, I think. But it was just a suppressant," Bruce says, "Temporary. I had my reasons for checking. And it was based off some poor kid's X-gene who they kept locked up in a lab for god knows how long. I'm not sure if they were able to make it once he was rescued."

"But you tried it?" Loki asks interrogatively.

"No," Bruce says, "It worked by targeting an inherited gene in a known position. Y chromosome. Dominant allele. I don't know where my gene position was mutated or what sort it was so it wouldn't have targeted it anyway. And like I said, it's temporary. Magneto took a shot, I think, and he's fine now. I have non-permanent cures available already."

"Hmm... the location of that kid— Leech is it?—seems to be lost too. Wonder if it was deliberate," Clint says, flicking through the files.

"It wouldn't surprise me," Steve says musingly.

The ' _if Fury knew someone in SHIELD was after those with superpowers'_ goes unsaid.

"And... Bruce? So's yours."

Tony frowns suddenly, and squints over Clint's shoulder.

But the archer's right. There's nothing. Bruce's location is just listed as 'unknown'.

There's a long period of silence.

Silence where Tony's thinking:

_So how did they know where you were? Have they been tracing you since you first got onto that plane?_

His fingers clench around his glass.

Bruce is fidgeting again.

Then:

"Okay," Steve says, "Well. What do we get from all this? In simple terms, if you don't mind, so I can understand too."

Tasha nods too.

"And what are the facts we _know_? We should get them sorted out before we start making assumptions."

"Very well," Loki says, inclining his head in her direction, "The facts, as we believe them to be, are these."

He doesn't seat himself when Tony pats the seat invitingly, instead continuing his restless pacing. His voice is smooth, clipped and factual.

"We know that I was punished-"

"-Tortured," both Tony and Steve cut in sharply.

"Tortured then, in SHIELD's head quarters. We know that someone had both the knowledge and the clearance to impersonate Fury well enough to deceive Tony and poorly enough to be marked as behaving oddly. We know what Romanoff mentioned earlier- we are moving too slowly for someone. We know someone is doing their best to frame Fury. We know Polt has falsified his file."

He stops pacing then and holds each of their gazes in turn.

"And in addition we now know that Polt has had access to all forms of serum research data that there were, aside from this project. Finally, we believe that if Fury is forced to step down, it is Polt, not Hill, who will take his place. And this will grant him full access to everything."

Clint whistles.

Steve says, "So, why? What's his endgame?"

Loki shrugs.

"Anything we can deduce from our knowledge will be pure guesswork. But logically, his aim is to compromise those individuals who are most dangerous. Or most useful. Else why would he be so interested in obtaining the tools to simulate their abilities? To end them? But what his purpose is I am not sure."

"Okay, well, guessing is cool," Tony insists, "It's what we started with isn't it?"

Loki shrugs, apparently giving in.

"X-o-phobia is one option, as Barton suggested. Possibly the extermination of the mutant race _is_ his goal."

And why is it that there's something dark, haunted even, in Loki's eyes at these words?

Steve's hand balls into a fist and his gaze darkens.

"It's not the only option of course, and nor is it the most likely," Loki says, a moment later, waving a dismissive hand at them.

"Actually, if I were he, I would be aiming to be the spider on the web. The Palpatine, as it were. I would control all who could _be_ controlled by soft words. And if that failed, I would use force—the serum— to _make_ them obey. Think of the control, the _power,_ Polt would wield over all of your mutants, if he could release something into the air which would kill them. If he could secure himself as the leader of the most elite spy network this realm has to offer, if he could learn his victims' each and every _weakness_ while no one suspected him, and keep his place by making people like Banner choose between him and death. What could the Council do then to stop him?"

He looks... creepy, a bit. The echoes of his " _Kneel mortal scum_ " mode are flitting across his face in a way that makes him look not all there.

To the credit of everyone in the room, no one asks if Loki is planning a try two at world domination.

But then, all Tony's thinking is what he had been when they'd first seen that serum.

If it hadn't been for Loki—hadn't been for his questioning and his twisted, crazy logic which was so hard to follow and which somehow _worked—_ they'd have charged right in there to kick out Fury. And Polt would have been thrust straight in to the sort of position Loki had just described.

"We'd stop him," Tony manages to produce, "Somehow. He has to know that."

The words seem to jerk the demigod out of whatever mental plane he was in.

"You must admit, there is not a lot you _could_ do to stop the Hulk. There was not much _I_ could do. Even Thor could only delay him."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence in my ethics and control," Bruce says drily.

_Power. Control. Chaos._

Tony wonders, suddenly, if everyone else feels as frustrated, as confused, as he does.

"Okay. So... say he wants SHIELD. Wants to control the world through fear. What the _hell_ was the point of him doing any of this," he bites out, "You. Bruce. The- what was the _point?_ Why not just get a professional hacker in? Why not just accuse Fury himself."

Loki opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

Then he shrugs.

"Because the information he needed is not there? Because he needed time and security to finish developing the serum? Because he simply _enjoys_ pointless complexity? I do not know. I do not have all the data. Every assumption I make is just that: Pure guesswork."

OoOoOoOoO

"We need to tell Fury."

It's Steve who says it, but Tony's thinking it too.

Because it's one thing to keep him in the dark while they think he's the sort of person who'd order _that_ for a helpless prisoner. When they weren't sure that Polt had anything to do with anything at all. It's something entirely different to be this sure it's him who's been manipulating everything and still not say. To still not say when there's so much _more_ Fury can do to fix this then them and when the risks are so immense.

Loki stiffens.

Tony raises a challenging eyebrow and dares him to disagree.

The demigod doesn't back down.

 _"Think,_ Tony," he says, _"_ Your Fury, you said, has been doing this for years. Logically he must have known _something._ Why would he not have acted? That is the question we should be asking. Why has Fury not stopped Polt before now?"

"That's all very well," Clint objects, "But why the hell shouldn't we direct it _to_ Fury? Doesn't he deserve the chance to explain? Since we're hoping he's still the good guy here somehow?"

Steve nods too.

"Clint has a point, Loki. If we think it's not Fury... well. He is trained for this. We owe it to him to tell him what we know. What if he's still looking for the traitor, like you said last week? Starting at the start, not working his way back. There's still no real evidence linking Polt to anything. And we don't even know if he knows what happened to you yet or not on his watch."

"But it's-," Loki cuts himself off.

"Yeah," Tony puts in, "And what if Fury has been blinded by false data? What if Polt's a friend or something? It can't hurt to give him the heads up."

And, he adds internally, Fury's one whole squad of agents more qualified to handle anything that isn't plain old brute force than they are.

"Tasha?" Clint says.

Her lips thin.

"I am unsure."

"Bruce?" Tony says.

"I think we should tell him. If only to be sure he does know. But I am not sure I trust him enough to do it personally," Bruce admits.

"Ha! Four point five versus one point five. We win," Tony says.

Loki's face twists into a frown.

"Consensus does not always equal correctness. And it is four versus two. 'I don't know' is not a yes, thus she falls on my side," he says icily.

"Actually-,"

"Do you have a reason now to think we shouldn't be going to Fury Loki?" Steve interjects reasonably.

"Aside from baseless suspicions?" Loki says, turning towards him, "Not really, I admit. I suppose I would prefer for there to be a _reason_ he didn't help me. That he let that happen to me. Why that was somehow better than an alternative we have yet to learn, rather than that he simply did not bother to _look._ Or that I did not—," Loki breaks off abruptly.

_Simply did not bother to look._

His voice is raw, just for a moment, and his eyes have that same, glittering intensity they had a week ago. And Tony suddenly wonders if he's always this convincing. If that just comes with the turf for being the so called silver-tongued god of lies.

Then the demigod continues, voice smooth as ever.

"But. No, I _do_ have reasons. In SHIELD, who can we trust to be _truly_ themselves? Not a shape shifter or wearing a glamour? Who do we know that well? Our advantage, thus far, has been that no one suspects us. They will soon, perhaps. But they do not _yet._ If we tell the wrong person, we will sacrifice that advantage."

"Well..." Tony says, because Loki has got a point. A really good point. But still...

"I think we should at least call in Hill. If anyone can get the info to Fury, tell us what's going on, _she_ can."

Everyone except Loki nods at that. And even _he_ looks like he's just considering it rather than saying no.

"Very well then," the demigod says at last, "Let us... tell Hill."

Tony pulls out his phone but before he can do more than open it Tasha's hand intercepts him, blocking the keys.

"We'll do it," she says, "Clint and me. When we report in tomorrow. If Hill's phone's being bugged..."

Tony bites back a _'Why would hers be if yours wasn't?_ ' and nods reluctantly, putting his phone away.

"Right. You guys want to stay here again by the way?" he asks.

Clint and Tasha exchange glances.

"Oh what the hell?" Clint says, "Sure."

OoOoOoOoO

Afterwards, when Clint and Tasha have joined Loki and Steve on the floor for a four player game of Risk, Bruce disappears upstairs. Tony excuses himself from playing the game on the grounds that "Tasha _always_ wins" and follows Bruce up to the labs.

When he gets there, Bruce is quietly sitting in front of the coffee maker, deep in thought.

"You alright?" he asks.

Bruce looks up sharply at his voice, then relaxes.

"Yeah. Just... thinking about the serum, I guess. I mean, if Loki's right... if Polt is after it, for whatever reason, I think the fact that they bothered to put the pre-serum in me at all is a pretty big tell. I guess I'm just..."

Bruce takes a Styrofoam cup and presses the dials in for a coffee.

"You're in big trouble if they get hold of that research," Tony finishes for him.

"Yeah. _Thanks_ Tony." Bruce says.

Tony wonders, suddenly, how it would feel to go from being invincible to being... not. To go from knowing that however undesirable an occupant the Hulk was, at least he had your back, to knowing that you were in danger of dying _because_ of him. That you both were. To be on a timer.

Only, he _does_ know.

He has a big blue reminder in his chest from now till forever.

The thought prompts him to shuffle over and clap Bruce on the shoulder.

"Well, buddy. He's always had your back. I guess it was about time you had the chance to get his."


	26. Thunder and Coffee

They end up ordering Pizza and Chinese for tea that night. Supreme for the former and sweet and sour pork, un-battered, with fried rice for the latter. Loki insists on the prawn crackers and Tasha demands that at least _one_ of the pizzas be olive-free, but all things considered, it's an unexpectedly pleasant meal.

After they've finished, Tony half thinks about asking if everyone wants to watch a second movie. _Together,_ this time.

Harry Potter, maybe, or The Two Towers.

Only before he can do more than suggest it, Clint's leaning forward and saying that, yes, the Lord of the Rings is good, but he's seen them all recently already and does anyone else want to watch 'V for Vendetta'? With action, plot _and_ explosions? And knives?

The last bit's openly directed at Tasha and Loki.

Tony, eyes slipping towards the latter, suppresses a wince.

But the demigod's nodding with that same slightly-too-eager look he sometimes gets when he's asked a question and people are actually interested in the answer and Steve, who Tony had been counting on but who he now suspects has never seen it before is saying 'Sure, why not?'

Even Tasha's nodding. Bruce meets Tony's eyes across the table and Tony really, really wishes there was a way to say "Way too close to home, Robbie" without making it seem like he's treating the demigod like glass.

In the end he gives up without trying and tells himself that no one really expects him to be the responsible one anyway.

Tells himself that Loki's tougher than he looks and it won't give him too many ideas he didn't have already.

They all end up watching it.

And it's... not so bad, Tony thinks. Clint and Tasha seem to enjoy the knife work, and so, unsurprisingly, does Loki. And unlike all the fun movies (not that he'd ever be caught classifying the shiny-ending sort that way) Loki doesn't seem so very moved by the ending.

Just smiles a bit and says afterwards that "V had the right idea" and that at least he died in battle and _usefully_.

Tony catches Steve giving him a sharp look at that.

But, really, with the mask and the government and the kids, it could have gone down _so_ much more badly than it did.

Next time though, he thinks, when they've gone their separate ways to bed and he's drifting off, _next time_ he'll hold out for 'Stuart Little'.

OoOoOoOoO

_The night is dark and the starlight is choked by the twisting branches above him._

_By the trees which surround him on either side, whose leaves and whip thin twigs cut into his flanks as he flees between them, desperate and panting. Already his white coat is dark with the crimson liquid and with the salty sweat which runs stinging into the wounds, burning them like fire._

_The wind howls past him as he moves._

_He doesn't slow._

_He's running and running and it's not fast enough and he_ knows _it won't be fast enough because nothing is ever enough for anyone and why won't his magic_ work _and shift him back as the stallion crashes after him through the night?_

 _Only, when he turns to look, it's Polt, not a horse behind him and he whispers "You will always be nothing" and he can't move and why can't he_ move? _He's as frozen as the ice his race his named for and nothing was_ ever _supposed to be like this._

_And he's trying to scream for help and he knows a single word would save him but nothing will pass his lips._

_And then Odin is there, watching, and his eye is hard and cold and he wants to scream:_

" _Please, father. Help me."_

_Help me. I did this for you._

_Only the words are choked by the foam in his mouth and Polt is getting closer and Thor says "How could I have ever loved a brother who is a monster?"_

OoOoOoOoO

Loki sits up in bed, drenched in sweat and shaking. The air is cold and he seems to have kicked off his covers onto the floor sometime during the night. The vestiges of his dream cling to him and for a moment he thinks he is still there.

Still running from Polt and the hooves and he can still _feel_ them. _Hear_ them, in the night.

Can see the black stallion getting closer and closer and—

There's softness beneath him and he's in his bed, alone, and it isn't dark because everything is lit by the little lamp he can't yet bring himself to turn off.

"I was dreaming. It was just a dream," he chants to himself, over and over.

And it _was_ and he knows that. Only, he can't seem to make himself stop shaking and his hands won't stop trembling and his heart is bouncing so hard in his chest he feels like it should break or he should.

Outside, the sky is dark with night and with rainclouds. Rain pelts against the windowpanes and he wonders, suddenly, if this was what woke him. And, moments later, is sure of it as lightning cracks like a whip across the sky. The thunder comes mere seconds after, deafeningly loud and strong.

He shivers, swallowing, and curls in on himself, reaching vainly for the heat that isn't there.

Once, he would have crawled in bed with Thor.

Once, Thor would have grumbled a bit about being woken for all the twenty seconds it took for him to fumble on a light or feel his little brother trembling. And then he'd have pulled him closer and wrapped an arm about him and promised to stay awake to keep the monsters at bay. And then he would have been warm and safe and—

No more.

He tries wrapping his own arms about his middle. But they are like ice and it doesn't _work_ and he doesn't really know why he'd thought it might. He shivers, and it's stupid because it's always stupid that he, a _Jotun,_ can feel the cold. But for all that he can't seem to get warm.

Lightning flashes again.

He hates Thor suddenly. Fiercely.

Why had Thor only to _smile_ to make everyone forgive him and forget his every fault? Why could Thor learn from his mistakes in three days and get second chances and not have to _worry_ about why people were doing things because Mjolnir could stop everything from hurting him anyway if things went wrong?

When all _he_ has been left with are his words.

Why was there no second chance for him?

And he is frozen and so very, very tired suddenly but he doesn't _want_ to go back to sleep where the nightmares are lurking, waiting for him. Doesn't want to return to the hopeless, bitter blackness of disappointment and fear.

_"How could I have ever loved a brother who is a monster?"_

He shivers again.

It is not even a lie.

 _Monster_.

And suddenly he can't lie here anymore.

He clambers out of bed and pads softly over the carpet to the chest of draws. Kneeling down, he rummages with icy fingers through the drawers and he can't _find_ it and he can feel the fear clawing it's way upwards as he pushes aside spare clothes. Has it been—? But no. It is there still. Wrapped up in his Iron Man pyjama top.

He releases the air he hadn't realised he'd been holding in one long exhale.

It is dangerously close to a sob.

And then he tugs his plaster cast free of its wrapping and traces each word, each painted blob, with one tapering finger.

_Best wishes for your recovery, Captain America._

_Tony Stark._

_Tony Stark._

_Iron Man._

_Tony Stark._

He is a monster, true. But not, he tells himself, an _abomination._

Monsters can be loved. Are not...

His free hand clenches and the nails bite into his palm enough to hurt. But they don't draw blood. He retains self awareness enough for that, at least. His t-shirt clings to him and he feels suddenly dirty and ragged and dry.

He wants to be clean. Wants the hollow nothing inside which he knows should hold _something_ to be filled.

Filled like it had been, a little, when he'd finally managed to beat Romanoff at Risk.

When Steve had grinned at him and Romanoff's composure had cracked enough to look annoyed and Barton had said that, screw the one game, a try two was clearly called for. This time with covert ops instead of world domination at which he _clearly_ had an unfair advantage, having actually tried doing it once for real.

When he'd felt wanted and included and not just like he was Thor's irritating little brother who was tolerated because his tricks were sometimes useful.

_Sometimes useful._

For a moment he is caught again in the old, grinding litany.

_Others just use tricks._

_Know your place._

_Silver tongue turned to lead?_

_Silence!_

The words are screaming and screaming and he wants to escape them but there _is_ no escape because they are true.

"I am not worthless," he whispers to himself.

As though merely telling himself that can make it real.

_Pathetic._

He is pathetic and he can't make them _stop._

He clutches the cast more tightly, focusing again on the short, scrawled words.

Tries to see not just the letters but the message buried beneath.

_You have courage._

_You're not a monster. Or if you are you're an Abominable Snowman or Night Fury._

_You are my friend._

They care.

Steve and Tony _care_.

And slowly, slowly, the tension constricting his chest begins to ease.

He decides suddenly that he wants a bath. Not with the salts and scented oils which were used in Asgard. But just... warmth, all over. He wants that. Wants the tension of the last few days to fade.

Replacing his cast in the bottom drawer, he stalks away into his little side-room and starts the water running.

An hour or so later he re-emerges damp and warm and oddly loose.

He seats himself in the chair near the little desk in the corner, pulls out a sheet of paper and unearths a pen. Then he starts to write.

Lists, Steve had said.

Well, silly as the idea is, it is _Steve's_ and he cannot think up anything better—anything at all, really—on his own.

He titles it, on the left side:

_"Reasons why being a Monster does not make me nothing."_

He considers the paper a moment. And then he gives into temptation and draws a line down the middle, straight and hard and as neatly as he'd drawn the margins into his books of lore and spells years ago when he'd had the time to write them.

_"Reasons why I am."_

And then he starts filling them in.

Left:

_#1: Shrek._

_#2: Steve is my friend._

_#3: So is Tony._

_#4: My children were not nothing._

_#5: I liked Randall._

_#6: I can still feel._

Right:

_#1: I am a Jotun._

_#2: I lie and cheat and steal. I have no remorse._

_#3: I killed my father._

_#4: I tried to conquer Midgard like they did._

_#5: I failed._

_#6: I killed Coulson._

_#7: Thor didn't come._

He pauses, staring at his lists.

They are... depressing, really. He crosses #7 out, and then recrosses it just to be sure and he is still staring at it and this isn't _helping._

Scrunching the paper up into a ball, he throws it into the rubbish bin in the corner. Then he rises and stalks over to the chest of drawers to put on something a little more dignified than his Hulk T-shirt and Iron Man pyjama pants— A neat pair of grey trousers and a shirt with long sleeves, moss green and indistinctive.

If he had more courage, he might have taken advantage of the rain to see if what worked for Evey and V would work for him. To see if it somehow had the power to free him from all fear.

He isn't though.

Instead, he heads downstairs in search of the ice-cream.

OoOoOoOoO

Steve is there when he gets there.

He's seated over the other side of the couch in front of a laptop. Loki blinks, then decides he doesn't really care why the man is awake at this hour. Instead, he waves a lazy hand in his general direction and walks past him towards the kitchen.

"Loki," Steve says a bit distantly, eyes not straying from the screen.

Loki pauses, waiting a few seconds for the supersoldier to add something.

He doesn't; apparently it's just his way of acknowledging the wave.

Looking closer, he thinks the mortal is scrolling through SHIELD files. A few papers are scattered across the table and more are crumpled into scrunched up balls on the floor. There's a box of Cheerios at his elbow too, open, from which he keeps taking absent handfuls.

Loki frowns with sudden indecision, eying the freezer, then the box, then the freezer.

The Cheerios win.

He pads over next to Steve, perching next to him and taking a handful of the brown little rings for himself.

"What are you researching?"

"Agents mainly," Steve says, glancing up, "The men who went missing. Figured I'd check if they had anything in common, you know? But they don't. Just that they all had higher level clearance for information access and all of them had worked for Polt in the past."

Loki nods without interest.

It is to be expected. If Polt had been director fifteen years ago of course the older agents would have worked for him.

"Trouble sleeping again?" Steve asks, turning a bit more to face him.

He shrugs.

"I find I am not overly fond of the thunder," he admits, swallowing another mouthful of the snack, "I always feel... stifled."

"Right. Well, I can't say I like storms too much myself either. Though _my_ least favourite part's the humidity," Steve confesses, "I always seem to sweat like a pig and then I get itchy and can't get to sleep. But at least it's broken now."

Loki grins, sharp and sudden.

"First your diet. Then your sweating. I find myself beginning to worry, Captain."

Steve blinks, and then raises an eyebrow at him.

 _"_ I'm not rising to that one," he says firmly.

Loki's smile turns more genuine.

"Really?"

"Really."

Loki waits a second or so to see if Steve will respond after all.

The man doesn't.

"You are stubborn, too, I see," he observes.

Steve glares at him half heartedly.

There's a moment more of companionable silence. Then:

"Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?" Steve says abruptly.

 _"Coffee?"_ Loki echoes, lost.

They have coffee here of course. Lots of it. Tony practically _lives_ off the stuff. And so, he suspects, does Banner.

But he'd thought Steve hadn't liked it. That it didn't work on him.

"Coffee," Steve confirms, "I don't really get stimulated by it, I have to say. My metabolism again. But... there's this really nice little shop a couple of blocks away. I know it sounds funny and it's past two now, but they open late and they've got these little pictures they do on the foam when you order lattes. With the brown and white. You never know which one you're going to get and..." Steve trails off uncertainly, looking a bit awkward.

How very... him.

"You mean... outside?" he hedges.

The words are more raw, more honest, than he'd meant them to be.

 _Fool_ , he silently berates himself, _How can he respect you when you keep showing yourself to be this vulnerable? This weak?_

The supersoldier looks at him searchingly. Then the blue eyes soften.

"You said you felt stifled," the man explains, then, a moment later, adds, "And you're not going to be recognised, Loki. No one who wasn't with SHIELD got more than a second or so looking at you, and that was in armor. And it's not as though there are security cameras there. It'll probably be mostly empty too what with the rain and the hour. Assuming— You don't mind getting a bit wet do you?"

He frowns, considering it _._

But... Steve wants to and there is, he tells himself, no reason to be afraid. Steve will not let SHIELD take him. He himself will not let them take him. And he is no more likely to be attacked there then here. And no less.

He nods slowly.

"I do not mind the rain," he says.

And it isn't really an answer, not quite, but it's _enough._ Steve smiles at him.

"It'll be great, you'll see. And they're all so friendly and they smile when you walk in," the man says enthusiastically.

Loki eyes the boyishly handsome face and the bulging muscles pointedly.

"At all who enter? Or just _you?"_

Steve blinks, then grins reluctantly.

"That's not very nice," he says reprovingly, "I'm sure they're that polite with everyone."

Loki snorts.

And then Steve is reaching forwards and punching him lightly across the upper shoulder and saying he's an incorrigible cynic. And for the first time, as he winces exaggeratedly and tells Steve that _he_ is an overbearing, naive idealist, he sees only fondness, not pity, in the supersoldier's eyes.


	27. For the Good of Midgard?

The streets are wet.

Rain runs across the roads and down into the gutters and flings itself against the cars which rumble past, lights flashing brightly in the night. And there are lights _everywhere,_ not just on the roads. There are the tall signs advertising food and games and drinks. The traffic lights. The shop windows and the apartment rooms and the lamps which line the streets like small moons.

He's vaguely aware that he's standing still in the icy downpour and staring about like a fool. As though he hasn't seen anything like this before and it's beyond his wildest imaginings.

Only it is, in a way.

He seems to have spent most of his time in secret facilities with concrete and metal and glass. And after more than three months inside it's... strange to get out. To feel the wind and hear the screeching of tires and the roar of the water and not be trapped in his room by his own fear, wishing he wasn't, listening to the thunder roll.

Steve is standing a bit to the side, under cover, watching him.

Later, he thinks, he'll be annoyed at him for having that smug smile on his face that says 'I-knew-you-needed-this'.

Right now it's all he can do to make himself move and rejoin Steve a bit further along under cover on the concrete path.

"It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?" the supersoldier says.

When there is so _much_ here he never knew existed. Never knew could exist. He has seen it in movies, of course, and when he was blowing up cars during his misguided invasion, but somehow this is different. Real.

Someone shouts for a 'Taxi' across the street and a yellow car screeches to a halt.

"Did I tell you about when I woke up from the ice?" Steve says, starting to move down the bubblegum encrusted sidewalk.

"I do not think so," Loki admits, following him.

And if it's not exactly an invitation to tell him about it it's meant as such and Steve takes it the right way.

"Well, let me start by saying we didn't have anything like this in the nineteen-forties. Women mostly still wore skirts, cars didn't go much above forty miles an hour and..." Steve trails off, shaking his head, "That was in civilian zones, anyway. And so you had me, waking up in a strange place when I thought for sure that was it for me when I crashed the plane ..."

Loki dodges a puddle of muddy water.

It is relaxing, he decides, nodding and 'Mmhmm-ing' at the right points, listening to Steve rambling on. It gives him a certain familiarity, a security, as he tries to cope with the sensory overload he is receiving. The sights. The sounds. The smells.

It is chaos. Ordered chaos, possibly, because the lights and lines seem to control everything. But he does not yet understand the rules.

A cat hisses at him suddenly as he moves past a metal rubbish bin.

And then Steve is turning down another street in another side ally and leading the way into a little building, short and warm with yellow lights and walls which are panelled with wood and hung with menus and with paintings which look like blobs and that _might_ be art.

There are only two other people there when they walk in. A youngish looking man and an older one who are talking quietly near the window. For a fleeting moment he is curious, but Steve chooses a seat around a corner well to the back. It's near the heater and, tucked away as they are, they could almost be alone.

He unbends, spreading his damp, chilled hands before the heat.

When the waitress comes round, a middle aged, comfortable sort of woman with greying hair whose name, according to the tag, is Sandra, Steve orders two lattes.

"Just like I normally have them."

She nods, jotting something down. And then she looks at Loki, and waits for him to nod his acceptance before she bustles away.

He is, he thinks, more pleased by that than is probably justified.

Ten minutes later, their drinks are bought round and Loki's eyes widen involuntarily. Inside his cup is what might be a swan or a phoenix. It's certainly _some_ sort of bird. And the pattern is all contrasts and streaming curves and it looks like it's taking flight or landing and almost, almost he doesn't want to drink it because he will lose it.

"They're nice, aren't they?" Steve says.

He looks up to see that the supersoldier is smiling at his own cup.

"I swear sometimes these things are better than the stuff I see in the museums."

Loki tilts his head forward a bit and squints downwards.

Steve has what might be a fern frond or a flower and it, too, is all curves and swirls and rich, creamy whiteness on brown.

"I like these," he decides, "They always do them here?"

"Yes. One of the advantages of not needing to churn them out so fast as they do at the busier places, they said."

He will, he thinks, come here more often then. It is warm and peaceful and _safe_.

Taking out his phone, he snaps a photo of the drink just so that he doesn't forget. Then he takes a mouthful and it's still slightly bitter but there's a reassuring hint of chocolate somewhere and the foamy milk is pleasant.

"It is nice here," he observes idly.

It's only when Steve grins with something close to relief that Loki wonders if maybe showing him this place was, to Steve, akin to how showing the library in Asgard would be for him. To offer a part of himself up, however small, to be rejected or accepted at someone else's whim.

He feels... trusted.

Like Thor always made him feel, a little, but without the resentment or the jealous wish that once, just _once_ , he could drag him down to his level and make them equals. Before it had been proven that no matter how far down Thor was pushed, no matter how high he himself managed to rise, being as much as Thor to anyone was as impossible a feat as lifting Mjolnir.

And then Steve's talking about coffee and art and the war. About Brooklyn.

An hour later, they're still swapping anecdotes and Steve's told him about the times when he was a 'performing monkey' and trying to tell Peggy he admired her and Loki's telling him about the time on Vanaheim he'd melted his feasting rings accidentally after the Allfather and the Njord had decreed no Aesir could go without them.

"As proof we weren't spies like Gullveig. I was sort of hovering outside, alone, _listening_ to the music and laughter when Thor found me."

"What'd he do?" Steve says.

"He gave me his," Loki says, simply, "And then went in with me. The guards had checked him once, going in. They did not think to do so again. When I asked _why_ he had given me his own pair he said that it was his job to watch out for his little brother and not leave him out in the cold."

He pauses and eyes Steve expectantly.

"I'm going to regret asking this, aren't I? But what happened then?"

Loki's lips twitch upwards into a sharp grin.

"I told a particularly zealous friend of the host that he wasn't wearing his rings. He got thrown out."

Steve snorts and shakes his head.

"I'm guessing that was the last time he said _that_ to you."

"No. No," Loki says, pasting on a wounded expression, "I was not foolish enough to _tell_ him I had done so. I just thought it would be fun to see if they _would_ throw out the future King of Asgard."

And then Steve's frowning a bit and Loki suddenly wonders what it is he's said wrong.

"So," Steve says, abruptly, "Can I ask—? Thor."

Loki stiffens a bit.

"I suppose so," he says, reluctantly.

"I mean, I know he's your big brother. Adopted, that is. But... were you two close? Just curious. You always sound like you should be when I mention him and you _look_ like it but you really didn't seem that way when you were together. And _he_ didn't seem that way when he was with us."

_He didn't seem that way when he was with us._

Loki's eyes narrow.

"Oh?"

"Well, he sort of throat-grabbed you off the plane. And there was the whole torture thing with Fury. And he never visited you in your cell. Said you were adopted when we mentioned your death count in the first two days and that you were doing all this for vengeance on him when Fury asked. No mention of what you told me about the void and the Chitauri things. You two fought like, like I don't know, like you hated eachother. And, finally, he muzzled you after the battle."

Steve is ticking them off one by one off his fingers.

"Not saying, mind, that he'd have tolerated what happened. Family is family. But... you two didn't exactly seem close."

Loki frowns.

"He _muzzled_ me?"

"Well, your you look-alike, then," Steve allows, "It was... dehumanising, a bit."

There's quiet, for a bit, while he considers that.

It's Odin. It has to be Odin because Thor wasn't carrying them when he was, as Steve put it, 'throat grabbed'. And Odin had come down personally and he _would,_ Loki thinks, rubbing his neck absently.

"He put it on himself?" he demands.

"...No. Not that I saw," Steve admits, "But they were Asgardian make, Fury said. And he told your look-alike that your- that is, the Allfather- would take it off when you had your trial in Asgard."

Loki blinks.

Thor surely wasn't _stupid_ enough to think a mere magical simulacrum was the real him, was he? Even he could not be that dense. Surely he knew Loki _better_ than to be tricked for more than a few seconds by a stranger wearing his face.

_But he always falls for that trick_ , a treacherous voice whispers.

"Most likely it was Odin," Loki offers at last, "When he came. I cannot imagine Thor willingly gagging me. He may not listen but he knows how much it would pain me to be silent."

Steve frowns then and Loki eyes him for a moment, wondering if he should try to explain more and then, moments later, how he can.

In the end he gives up _._

"As for the rest? Well... he was angry, I suppose. It is hardly the first time his temper has grown enough for him to strike me—because you must admit I _did_ deserve it. And even _Thor_ is not tactless enough to talk of loving a murderer or offering excuses for him to those who were closest to his victims. Not on the eve of battle with a realm at stake. And if he had done so would any of you trusted him to fight against me? To receive a just punishment in Asgard?"

Loki pauses for another sip of his still-warm drink.

Steve's lips thin.

"We might have," he says.

Loki chooses to ignore that.

"But as for disowning me? Not visiting? Not _knowing?_ You have a point. It would seem he no longer is fond of me, no matter what he said about coming home and fighting together again. After all, I only seemed to matter after I threatened his world's safety and the Allfather's tesseract _._ And he didn't _come_. I can call to him, you know, and always before he has come. But no more."

Interest flickers in the supersoldier's eyes.

"Can you still call him?" he says.

"Perhaps," Loki says, noncommittally.

Because he might be able to but he doesn't _want_ to. Because Thor hadn't come when he'd screamed that he _needed_ him before, so why would he do so now? And if he _does_ call than he admits to all of them that he is weak and cannot do this on his own. That he needs help. And he is not weak. Not anymore.

But nor is he strong enough to bear the shame of begging for his golden brother twice. And being twice refused.

He turns the topic to safer waters, asking about Steve's shield. When he'd got it. What it _is._ Why it absorbs all vibration yet somehow manages to bounce and reflect and return to Steve's hand when he throws it. They don't revisit this subject.

When they've finished their drinks, Steve wipes the foam of his mouth and pushes his chair back apologetically.

"Bathroom," he says, when Loki lifts an enquiring eyebrow.

Well, he thinks, as the supersoldier disappears around the corner, there are worse things to do than wait here, warm and content and dreamy.

OoOoOoOoO

Two minutes later, he sees the supersoldier making his way through the tables back to him.

"Loki," Steve says, "Would you mind lending me a hand? Don't laugh but there's a kitten out back a street or so away that's stuck in the trash and I'm not sure if I can move it without crushing it."

His voice is tight and... concerned.

Loki pushes his own chair backwards.

"Only _you_ would take a trip to the bathroom and come back moaning about kittens," he groans.

But he follows him anyway.

Steve leads him out the back. Then further down the street and down another, through a walkway and around a bend. The rain is still heavy in the streets and he feels confused and tight and oddly small, because it's... odd. Odd that the cat is here because he hadn't known Steve's hearing was that _good._

And then they're in a blind alley and there is no rubbish.

Instead there is a sudden rumble behind him. A flash of blinding light.

When he jerks about he can see only a black van and a man with dark sunglasses who says, in a friendly voice, "Get in."

Loki's gaze slips towards Steve uncertainly.

"Get in," the captain echoes.

Loki takes a half step forwards, then stops.

"Who are they?" he asks.

But it isn't the supersoldier who replies. It's the man again.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is if you don't, if you try to run or if you scream for help, there's a nebuliser in the car which will release the an interesting nerve venom we discovered from the bodies of your freaky little Chitauri friends. Only in the air everywhere for a few seconds but I can attest to the fact that it can reduce trained men to fetal heaps for hours. But then, _you_ probably know that already. Get in the car."

And suddenly, suddenly, he knows that cannot be the real Steve and he curses himself thrice over for not _looking._

For not _checking_ and being as foolishly, blindly trusting as Thor _._

For being stupid enough to wander away from Stark Tower in the first place and inviting this, whatever this is. Because of course there was no rubbish. No kitten. No way for Steve to have heard one at this distance just going out upstairs to wherever the bathroom is.

He wants to run and he fights the impulse because he needs to be logical and his emotions _will not_ be allowed to master him.

"Where is Steve?" he demands coldly.

'Steve' smiles then, and the sudden twisting of his lips looks so odd and so wrong on his face that Loki shivers.

"Pity you caught on so fast. I'd been hoping to play with that a bit longer," not-Steve says.

"Where _is_ he?" he says and raw desperation is bleeding in and he can't seem to stop it.

"Why, in the bathroom of course. And we're _streets_ away now so don't count on him for a rescue this time," the man says impatiently, pulling out what looks like a garage door opener and what Loki suspects is very much not.

But it's... good. Steve is safe and it _was_ him before and it's _good._

"Get in the car."

He considers it as he stands there in the rain. Because they know about the Chitauri and they know them by that name. Which means, he thinks, that they are SHIELD, Polt or Asgard. The latter he rules out because this is a four on a one to ten scale of subtlety and that is so far beyond their capabilities as to be laughable.

He leans towards Polt, if only because they seem to know Steve rescued him last time.

And unless he's wrong, they seem to expect him to be... scared. Scared enough to step inside a closed car with no assurance, not even their word, that they will not then torture him anyway, away from even the hope of rescue. Scared as though he _hasn't_ been injected so many times that the screaming and the pain that he _knows_ will tear its way through each nerve like a thousand red hot needles which burn and burn and won't _stop_ are almost bearable.

"I require more proof than your word to convince me that you have the venom," he stalls flatly, "Show it to me."

He needs to think _._

Not-Steve and the sunglasses-man exchange glances.

"And why would we do that?"

"Because," he says sharply, "It is in your interests. You _may_ have the spray. But you may be lying. I will not act until I know. And if you _do_ use it, _I_ will not be the only one screaming on the ground."

Sunglasses frowns and he _really_ shouldn't need to point that out to them if they truly have felt the stuff before.

"He's got a point," not-Steve says at last.

A moment of silence. Then:

"Fine," Sunglasses says, turning away and reaching with bad grace into the back of the car.

He uses the time to consider. The odds are in his favour that he can fight his way out. But they have a car so they are taking him somewhere and that somewhere will, he guesses, be to someone who wants to question him. Someone who might know answers. And if he runs, he loses that much information merely because he does not wish to face a little— _a lot_ —of pain.

Loki makes himself take a wary step back, gazing around at the high walls with feigned hopelessness and wide eyes.

Almost, he does wish Steve would come.

But there is no way for him to know where he is amongst the millions of places he could be.

Steve doesn't have Heimdall.

The mortal returns then with a syringe with a strange, vaguely blue substance in it which swirls and swirls and catches the back of his throat like Banner's concentrated sulfuric acid. And he knows that smell. That look. That _everything._

It _is_ the venom. And if that is the venom than they had access to skilled scientists and Chitauri bodies. And they have sufficiently few morals to use it on other people and their own operatives even after knowing what it is that it does.

And the suspicion that they are Polt's men is now a certainty. SHIELD, however much he despises them, look out for their own.

He widens his eyes, as though with sudden recognition. And fear.

It isn't even wholly feigned.

"Last chance."

"And if you make him push that button you melodramatic mass-murdering alien bastard I'll make your time with me _hell_ when I wake up _,"_ not-Steve says and it's as though Barton has been thrust into Steve's body.

As though their tentative mutual tolerance was just a charade and Steve's face _shouldn't_ be able look like that. Shouldn't be able to twist like that into a mask of arrogance and hatred and fear.

He steps towards the van.

"Smart," the man says.

He finds he does not really agree.

But what does it really matter if he will hurt a little? He has taken worse before than this to get what he needs.

_For the good of—_

Not Asgard. Not now.

Midgard, perhaps?

But he wonders, as he pushes the thoughts away, whether Steve will think he has betrayed them.

If he will be missed.

Something twists inside and he isn't sure _why._

And then the doors close behind him with a slam, lost in the dreary beating of the rain.


	28. Lost and Found

The inside of the van is lit by a dull blue glow.

It comes from a cylinder of blue liquid that is attached to a squarish machine which rests in one corner one of the benches. It is the one his captors sit on, and he suspects it is the nebuliser because not-Steve has a steadying hand on it as if to shield it against the motions of the car. It looks right. And already he can smell the venom.

Can almost taste the sickening odour, heavy with memory, which beckons to all the darkest shadows in his mind.

He's sitting on his phone and it's digging in and he would shift it only he is reluctant to draw attention to himself. He will endure what they do, of course. He has to now, else there was no reason to go with them or get in the car at all. But there is a difference between enduring and provoking them and for the moment at least his captors keep their distance on the other side of the car, silent and tense.

Watching them, he wonders if they are frightened of him and his lips quirk upwards a bit. Ironic, if it were true.

"We should search him," Sunglasses says abruptly.

His smile vanishes and he tenses a little.

"Why? If he has weapons it's not like he's using them," not-Steve objects.

Sunglasses sneers at him.

_"Because_ the boss'll get angry. And he's been with Stark. He could have _anything_ on him," he says, and then he's half walking, half sliding over to Loki and saying coolly, "Hold still or we'll push the button."

"But-," not-Steve starts, then breaks off with a shrug.

And then the mortal is getting closer.

He forces his body not to stiffen more because they are looking at him now and he can deal with being touched. He can _so_ deal with being touched. Only they aren't Steve and they aren't Tony and he has to tell himself over and over that they will use the venom if he strangles them as soon as they get within reach of his arms.

"What is your name?" he asks instead, to distract himself.

Sunglasses doesn't respond and he's getting closer and there's nowhere to retreat to. Nowhere he can run. And then the hands are reaching out and running over his arms. His chest. His neck. And he tries to tell himself it's not the same as in the cell but he flinches when his hair is pulled up and Sunglasses checks beneath it. He feels wrong and exposed and he _hates_ it.

"Stand," Sunglasses orders.

He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to feel the hands where he knows they'll have to search.

And he can feel his fingers curving into claws and—

"C'mon Roddy, just leave him," not-Steve says abruptly, "We've got detectors at the House. I got paid to lure away him or Banner and he's come quietly enough. If you make him flip and we're nerve-gassed the next time Amy kisses you it'll be me with a dagger in your heart. I'm not getting caught by that shit if I don't have to, and I _won't_ have to if you don't trigger the bastard."

_Banner? They are after Banner?_

But of course they are. If they're bothering with the pre-serum at all then of course they are. Only he hadn't expected them to _know_ yet.

The two exchange a long look and he hates the way the hand on his neck seems to burn him where it lingers.

"Fine," 'Roddy' says, and he's going and going and _gone._

And he can breathe.

OoOoOoOoO

The first thing Tony is aware of is the thunk on his door.

It jolts him awake and he gropes for his phone and flips it on.

He squints at it for a moment, and then a bit more just to make sure he's not seeing things but, nope. It's nearly four in the morning. Three fifty two, to be exact. His eyes feel like someone's thrown a handful of grit into them and he's pretty certain he's a zero on the one to ten scale of heroic preparedness.

Mentally, he tallies the odds of this being somehow normal.

Depressingly, there's just a three percent chance that it was a figment of his imagination. Which means the odds are higher than he'd like that someone's actually _there,_ responsible for the sound. And that means that there's an eighty percent chance he'll have to get up to deal with it and he really, really doesn't like those odds.

The door bangs again with what might be someone weak trying to bash it in and what might be someone strong knocking loudly.

"Jarvis," he whines, "Why is it always the night?"

His AI doesn't reply to that.

Tony groans and sets himself the task of getting up and pulling on his trousers. His socks. His shirt.

Eighty percent. He's never been a fan of trying to defy logic.

"Jarvis, who's out there?" he says, dragging on a pair of shoes.

If the AI replies, it's lost in a sudden, deafening crack of lightning.

_"_ What was that?"

"I said it seems to be Captain Rogers, sir."

Tony frowns as he gropes about and clips two plain metal bands onto his wrists because shouldn't Steve be doing better things than banging on his door? Like _sleeping?_

"Alright, open up. And turn on a light."

The room is flooded, suddenly, by brightness and he has to squint against it for a moment because his eyes are starting to water. For a moment or two, as the supersoldier comes in, he's just a blurry silhouette. Then his eyes adjust and Steve looks wet. And can he even _get_ sick from wearing damp clothes?

"Problem Cap?" he yawns, "Aside from your shirt being as transparent as a window without the curtain?"

Steve ignores that.

Tony can feel himself getting more alert because if this is bad enough for Steve to not flush or tug at anything self-consciously, then it's probably bad. And now he looks, Steve doesn't just look determined and wet but also oddly pale and tight.

"Loki's missing."

Tony blinks and frowns.

"Something wrong with the air here? Because I thought I heard you say 'Loki's missing' and—,"

_"-Missing_ Tony," Steve says more forcefully, "We went out to get coffee because he couldn't sleep and he looked like he needed to get out. Said the thunder made him feel stifled and it's my fault because he only went out at all because he _trusted_ me. I was gone for five minutes and when I got back he wasn't _there."_

He catches himself wondering what was wrong with _his_ coffee, and that really isn't what he needs to be focusing on right now.

_"Shit._ Wait, you took him outside _?_ Without telling us?"

"Yes. I didn't even- I mean, I assumed it'd be safe and it was just a coffee shop. We were barely ten minutes away from here. But I should have known. He trusted me and I left him and I should have known."

Tony frowns, finally registering that last point.

_You left him?_

"Okay, so there's a case for it being your fault. But it's not like any of us actually thought of being watched already," he says eventually, because he'd offered to take Loki out himself. Admittedly disguised and he doesn't _think_ he'd have left him, but it could have been him where Steve is now.

He's selfishly glad it's not.

The captain is silent.

"Was there any sign of a struggle?" Tony prompts.

"No. I checked. I think—one of the waitresses said 'back already?' like I'd left and when I asked where Loki was, she said he hadn't come back since I left with him three minutes ago out the back. And I hadn't left the bathroom."

"You think-," Tony says.

He doesn't finish but he can see in Steve's face that he doesn't need to.

_Shapeshifter_.

"Workshop. I need the workshop," Tony mumbles.

And then he's in the elevator going down and he needs to go faster and faster and he's thankful right now that people need codes to get into Stark Tower because he really can't afford to be wondering right now if anyone is really anyone.

Steve still looks terrible.

"Hey. You know it's not really all your fault, right?"

Which is pretty pathetic for a shot at a pep talk and certainly wouldn't have made him feel better, but this is Captain America, strong, confident and brave and he's not supposed to need to feel guilty about things.

He's supposed to sound a bit like a jerk and say _"Is this the first time you've lost a soldier?"_

"Yeah?" Steve says, "You didn't see him out there. It was like he's never seen the rain before. Like watching a kid in one of those countries where there's been a drought for years or like the people we rescued from the camps. And now he's been taken or left to who knows where with someone wearing my face and I didn't even _think."_

"True," Tony allows, abandoning that line of argument, "But it's not like beating yourself up is actually going to help anyone."

Steve is silent for a bit.

"I just... I know you saw the cell but I was _there._ With the red and the filth and the— what if they do it again? What if there's another three months of that and we can't fix him or help him because last time we didn't know but this time we— _I —_ let it happen?"

Tony frowns because he didn't _want_ to think about that option.

"Well," he says at last, "This time we'll find him much sooner."

"How?" Steve says.

And he says it like... like he has faith in him. Like he believes him.

Or like he _needs_ to believe.

The realisation prompts him to reach out and clap the supersoldier on the shoulder.

"It won't be three months. We'll be there _way_ before three months."

He pauses, thinking for a second or so.

And then he has it.

"Did he take his phone?"

OoOoOoOoO

Loki estimates that it is another ten minutes before the van stops.

They have, he notes as he climbs out, parked inside. And he doubts this anything but a convenient place to question quests. The place reeks of abandonment, from the leaking roof to the bare, chipped walls and litter-crusted floors, all concrete and metal and peeling paint. It isn't a nice place and he shivers as he is caught in a sudden gust of wind from an invisible crack.

He doesn't know who the men are who point their guns at him while he is scanned by Roddy. But they take his phone and crush it, and he hates them suddenly because his phoenix had been on that and now all he has is a memory. Hates them because, little as it was, it had been _his_.

After they've scanned him, they take him upstairs, and bind him to a metal chair with chains.

There is a light shining directly at him and it burns into his face and blinds him, if he looks at it directly.

He can't see the rest of the room.

"Where am I?" he calls out.

No one answers, and he doesn't really expect them to. Almost, he wishes he knew New York as well as Sherlock Holmes had known London, just _because._ But he doesn't. All he knows is that he had been in the van for about ten minutes, which suggests that wherever this is, it is close. Close to Tony and Steve and Stark Tower and he might not have to walk too far to get back when he escapes. Assuming, of course, that he is in a position to stand.

And then they have gone and he is left with the empty silence.

If it supposed to intimidate him, it fails. He has had far worse than this before.

He occupies himself trying to reconcile all he knows of magic with all he knows of science. Tries to see which theories can be swapped across and which are better the Aesir way. It's an engrossing subject and he's just wondering if it's possible to torture people more efficiently by altering the charge balance between neurons rather than by the traditional methods of fire and electricity when he becomes aware that a door is opening somewhere.

And, moments later, that there are footsteps echoing through the room and breathing in the glaring brightness which is not his own. He stiffens, and someone laughs.

It is not a nice sound.

"Who are you?" he demands sharply.

"George," a man says- _lies_ \- pleasantly.

_"George,"_ Loki echoes, not bothering to hide his scepticism.

'George' laughs again, light and pleasant.

"You have upset a great many people, Loki," he says, and there's nothing real in his voice.

Nothing which can be _used._

"An unfortunate side effect of starting a war. And of losing it," he makes himself say blandly.

"Indeed," the other says, "And of escaping your just confinement."

Loki narrows his eyes.

"You would call _that_ justice? How... interesting. I have read your 'Geneva Conventions'. I wonder if your public would agree with you."

A fist slams down on a table, and the sound echoes through the room.

"Those conventions refer to _men_ , not aliens and _beasts_. They would no sooner apply than if you had been a lion. Or a snake. Monsters deserve no consideration, and the fact that you can mask yourself as one of us does not change what you are."

The words hurt.

But words like these will always hurt, the more so as a part of him knows they are true. He pushes that aside.

"So you _approve_ of the torture of beasts. How... curious."

"No, you little viper, I just don't happen to think the conventions apply to them," George hisses.

Loki takes a private satisfaction in 'George' no longer being calm. Controlled.

"But there _are_ laws which do, are there not?" he says, aloud.

There's the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching, and a looming shadow to his left.

And then pain explodes in his face as a metal gauntlet connects with his cheek. His head snaps to the side and he wonders, for a moment, if something has broken. But mostly he just feels sore and bruised. A trickle of blood runs down from somewhere down his face, wet and warm.

"Your place—all your kind's place—is in the dirt, kneeling _beneath_ us."

If by 'his kind' George means Jotun he is not, perhaps, so very wrong.

But Loki finds himself doubting it.

He makes his eyes widen and pastes on a look which says 'weak' and 'scared' and 'in pain'.

"And now you fear us," George says, "You. _You_ who would have ruled us. Who claims to be a god. But gods do not _bleed_."

The man circles about behind him.

He wishes, for a moment, that he was more than a silhouette.

When the next blow comes, he is prepared for it. And the next. And even as his head snaps to the other side and more blood oozes down he tells himself it's good. He is getting information and it is _good._

And then George is drawing a syringe of blue liquid.

"So tell me, Loki, what did you tell them?"

His voice is calmer now. More controlled.

"Tell who?" Loki asks, eying the syringe warily.

He has had venom before, of course. But always in scratches or drops. Never the fifty millilitre monster that George is holding.

"Do not play games with me. Until they rescued you everyone behaved exactly the way we wanted them to. And now? Now, instead of acting, they sit there requesting leave and doing research and doing nothing. The only difference was you. _What did you tell them?"_

"I told them nothing," he lies.

It isn't convincing and it isn't meant to be. No one tells the truth the first time they are asked a question.

"Did you? _Did_ you."

And then his head is being pulled back by the hair and the needle is piercing his throat and something is running straight into his blood. And it's not the whole dose, but it's more than he's ever had before and suddenly everything is burning and burning and he can't _think_. Can't speak _._ He tries, but all that escapes is a ragged scream which goes on and on and on and he can't seem to _stop,_ even when his lungs are empty.

Eternities later, when everything starts to clear, his throat is raw and George is still there.

Still there waiting and there's so _much_ of the blue left.

"What did you tell them? What did Banner tell them?"

"Banner was... being chased. He came to T—to Stark for help when he killed them," Loki rasps out, and it's not quite a lie. Not really.

George steps closer and this time he takes hold of one bound wrist and starts bending a finger back as far as it will go and then more.

"What did you tell them?"

Loki closes his eyes for a moment, gathering himself.

"I said they were most likely rogue traitors," he says.

And then he yelps as one finger snaps like a brittle twig. Then another.

"You are a liar. A filthy _liar_."

This, Loki suspects, could get very repetitive very quickly. But if he wants his lies to be believed, than 'George' and whoever else watches this needs to believe that they have broken him, distasteful as the idea is.

He whimpers, and he hates how easy it is to make the sound.

"Answer me."

"Why would they listen to me?" he says- _pleads-,_ "I declared war on their realm. Their home. Why would they care for my words?"

The next blow strikes his unprotected stomach and he tries to curl in on himself but he can't.

"Because you're too smart for your own good. We were warned that might be the case. If someone said anything, it was you. _What did you tell them_?"

"Why me then," he spits out, suddenly furious, and the needle's pressing against him more and it _hurts_ , "Why not choose a different prisoner to torture? There cannot have been a shor—," he breaks off and he's melting again and it's more and too much and he wants to scream but his throat won't _move_.

"You? You think we _wanted_ you? We needed someone who wouldn't need a doctor and could be kept like that for months. You were all and I could strangle you for getting out a second sooner than your lifetime for what you did."

There's more, he thinks. More about knowing his place and deserving things and he can't focus. Can't think with the stuff pumping through his blood.

When the haze fades, George is still there.

He wonders, distantly, if George knows he has confirmed the fact that it wasn't Fury with his little confession. He suspects not because the questions are still coming but it's somehow hard to focus because his heart is jolting and jolting and hurting and there's a warm black haze which beckons to him and he has to make himself not sink into the warmth because he _needs_ this.

"We don't need you," George is saying, "And you're best chance of walking out alive is to tell us what you told them. Tell me!"

The needle presses against him again.

"Please, no more," he makes himself whisper, hesitating.

It's perfect, really. Whatever he says in this state will be taken as truth. His eyes are streaming now from the light.

"You want this to stop? Yes? Then _answer_ me," George prods sharply.

The foggy, half aware part of his brain which is reminding him that this was his idea is saying 'Victory'.

The rest of him just wants it to _stop_.

But it isn't like it had been in the cell or the void, waiting without hope for an end that never came. Knowing that there was no point to anything because no one would ever come. He has a purpose now and he clings to it because he can _do_ this. He can do this for everyone.

He laughs, suddenly, and he can feel the needle jerk a little. A single drop escapes and burns its way down his throat.

"You will not win," he says, and makes his voice waver with madness and with pain, "I will never tell you what I told them. And even if I am not there to prod them, even if you do know what I will do, we will topple Fury and there is nothing you can do to stop us. He will be toppled and you will fall and I will laugh when you are hauled away in chains."

The needle presses inward, sharp and he can feel warm blood dribbling down his neck where it presses in.

"When?" George says, but he doesn't inject.

And Loki can hear the veiled satisfaction in his voice.

He believes him.

And they are not torturing him more yet. And he _knows_ then that George at least does not yet know that his words about needing a doctor have exonerated Fury.

"I will not-," he says, and more venom is starting to come and he doesn't want it to.

He casts his mind back, to SHIELD's files, to dates and numbers and he thinks there's a conference coming up only he doesn't know what it is or when.

"At the conference," he manages to get out and the venom is burning but not too much yet, "At the conference this week. We will expose him publicly," he says, "There is _nothing_ you can do."

There is no lie in his voice.

Romanoff, he thinks, would be proud.

"Which one?" George hisses, and he _doesn't know._

He doesn't know and he doesn't know what he should say.

And then there is a crash in the distance and George is saying 'Fuck' and dropping the syringe and running and _out._ And he doesn't have the strength to do much but stare blindly at nothing, eyes streaming, as a door clangs shut somewhere behind him and the syringe clatters to the ground.

He wonders, suddenly, who is coming.

SHIELD, perhaps?

Fear surges through him, sharp and sudden, and he wants to rise only he's too weak just now to break the chains and his hands are shaking and his heart still feels as though it is being periodically squeezed.

The doors crash open a minute later.

"Loki!" someone shouts, and it's -

"Steve?" he says, uncertainly.

Because just because it sounds right doesn't mean it is the real him.

And then the light is being turned away and he has to blink for a little while before he can see. And Steve's letting out a stream of words and... apologising? For leaving him in the coffee shop?

His eyes are almost adjusted now, and Steve _looks_ like Steve, only in his patriotic tights and mask. And his shield.

And then Tony lands, suit and all, and it _is_ them.

"Took the computers and cameras out but they've got nothing. No clue about who was on the other—You look like _shit_ , Robbie."

Loki forces his face to frown, a bit, and it hurts.

"You are here," he says, and it's stupid because of course they are.

Only he hadn't expected anyone to come for him.

And then Tony is saying something about phones and GPS's and tracking lost signals and "Here being the last place your phone showed up at" and Steve is tugging off the chains around his wrists and ankles and it occurs to him to be happy that it's just them here rather than everyone else as well.

He rubs his hands numbly and they won't stop trembling.

He blames the venom.

"You came for me?" he manages to produce, a full minute later.

Because they are here, with him, not chasing the hopefully long-gone 'George'.

"Of course we came," Steve says, "I thought—I was gone for five minutes and you were _gone_. And you're- It's my fault like Bucky and I shouldn't have _left."_

Loki frowns.

He doesn't _like_ Steve being sorry.

"Do not be. It was the perfect opportunity. A simple hour or two of torture—less if they were remotely competent, which... which they _were—_ a feigned breakdown. They swallowed all the lies I fed them."

Or that's what he means to say. In reality he ends up sort of rasping and choking his way through the words, but he thinks they understand.

"You knew it wasn't me and you still went?" Steve asks, voice tellingly flat.

"Well, not at the start," Loki says, and he has to pause while his heart freezes and melts before he can add, "And they planned to use the venom anyway, if I did not come. So it was more a... skilful manipulation of a bad situation. But yes. I probably could have... fought my way out. But that would have been so very— _crude_."

Almost as crude as this rescue, in fact.

"You're crazy Robbie," Tony says, and there's something in his voice he can't decipher, "But you've got balls, I'll give you that."

Loki feels that strange, odd warmth again inside.

He does his best to incline his head in Tony's general direction.

"If I say letting yourself get tortured just on the off chance that you _might_ get information isn't something I like you doing, will I sound like an ungrateful control freak?" Steve says eventually, still oddly flat.

Like he's trying not to burst out and say something else.

Loki frowns a bit.

"Why not? For the greater good, yes? In Asgard—,"

"I may not," Steve says firmly, "be the most unbiased source ever, but can I make it clear that I don't think the way they treated you there was in _any way_ something you should be using as a standard?"

He feels an odd combination of warm and sore and safe.

It is pleasant, having people who care. Who do not dismiss what he does as mere tricks.

Who take his side against Odin.

But he has done what he wants now, like he always has, and George will tell Polt and everything can be relied upon to fall into place.

He hopes.

Though he will need to ask Barton and Romanoff about the conference. And he will need to force Polt's hand to incriminate him somehow, but those are mere details.

There's silence, for a bit, which lasts until Loki manages to summon up the willpower to lurch to his feet.

"-I wish to go. Tony, I do not-," he tries to say, and Steve is at his elbow steadying him.

"Can you fly us both home?" Steve asks, and he feels a sudden rush of fondness for the supersoldier for having somehow managed to work out what he means.

"I did in the rescue," Tony says, and Loki wants to tell him 'good' only he's thinking now that it might have been a mistake to try standing. The blackness from before is a siren's call now and it's hard to think and the ground is rushing up to meet him and he doesn't know why he won't move.

Doesn't know why the world is starting to tilt.

And then the darkness is calling and he is falling and falling to nothing.

And he wonders why it is that he never hits the ground.


	29. Practicality and Boundaries

Tony doesn't feel that much better when they're flying back.

He feels more in control than he had in the workshop, true, and better then he had while flying Steve through the air and telling him every minute or so not to worry because of _course_ this would work. Of course no one would have taken the phone and of course Loki wouldn't have somehow dropped it. But he doesn't feel good.

Partly that's because he has no idea what Loki's been injected with. And partly it's because, rambling aside, he doesn't actually have the faintest clue what lies Loki apparently got 'them', them _hopefully_ being Polt rather than a random third party, to swallow. But mostly it's because he's looking at Loki's limp, loose frame and the purple bruising and remembering the blind way he'd looked at them when they'd first come and the way his hands couldn't seem to stop shaking.

Remembering the almost dismissive way he'd talked about it all.

Like it didn't _matter._

Didn't matter that he'd been tortured because they'd got a strategic advantage, and why _wouldn't_ anyone put that ahead of his own safety?

The way his eyes sort of got that _look_ in them when he talked about what he'd done—why they shouldn't be sorry it had happened—that makes Tony want to sit him down and shout at him until he _listens_ that they don't _need_ him to do that for them. That they aren't Asgard and they've been bluffing things off _fine_ up till now and he didn't _need_ to get himself tortured just to give them an edge. That they didn't want him to.

His arms tighten just a bit around the now-sopping Steve and Loki and he almost wishes he'd taken a cab. But a cab, while undoubtedly more rain proof, would be slower and there'd be questions and news and everything he doesn't need just now.

And then they're back.

He lands in an under-cover zone and then Steve's holding Loki while Jarvis takes his suit off smoothly piece by piece. Cuirass. Helmet. Greaves.

"Where should we take him?" Steve shouts over the roar of the rain.

_Bed? Or the couch?_

The couch is easier and quicker. But on the other hand, the bed will probably feel safer for Loki when he wakes...

"Bedroom," Tony calls back, after a second or so, "But we'll probably need to do something about the dripping before we put him down. Before you do, I mean."

Steve nods, and then he's heading towards the elevator.

Tony pauses just long enough to dump the syringe of blue weirdness on a table in the top floor labs. And then he heads downstairs to Loki's room to join Steve.

By the time he gets there, Steve has propped Loki up in the wicker chair against the wall and is rummaging through the bathroom cabinet for what Tony hopes is a towel. Loki's still out, Tony thinks, only his mouth is sort of working soundlessly with what might be words or what might be moans or muscle tremors.

The rest of him's still limp as a dishcloth.

Steve emerges a moment later with two towels and a bundle of clothing. He's holding the towels between him and the clothes, like he doesn't want to get them damper than he needs to, and his face is shining with water under the electric light.

Belatedly, Tony wonders if he's is cold too.

"D'you want me to grab anything for you?" he asks, "New clothes or something?"

Steve dumps his load on the bed.

"It's fine Tony. But thanks."

And then they're towelling Loki off and bundling him out of the dripping clothes and into the dry ones and privately Tony's sort of happy that his ribs aren't jutting out anymore. That his stomach is no longer concave.

He's less pleased about the purple bruising blossoming across there. Whoever had hit had hit _hard._

When they've finished, Steve puts him down and propped his head up on his pillows and spread the covers over him in a way which should make him look a lot less vulnerable then it does.

"You think he'll be out a while?" he asks.

Steve looks down.

"...Yes," he says at last.

There's silence, for a few minutes. And then Steve peels off his mask and scrapes back the wet hair out of his eyes and seats himself creakily in the wicker chair he drags over next to Loki's bed. He's still wet but he doesn't seem to mind and Tony can't summon up enough concern for his furniture to care.

"Thanks for the help, Tony," the supersoldier says, and he doesn't seem to be able to tear his gaze away from Loki's prone form, "I think things would have been a lot less... I'm glad it wasn't the three months again. I wouldn't have known where to _look_."

Tony sinks into the armchair near the window.

"Genius, remember?" he quips, "Always thought I'd make a good detective."

He thinks Steve smiles but in the half light he can't be sure.

There's silence, for a while.

Nothing's happening now, and the room's warm and the chair's soft and he can feel his eyes shutting.

Can feel himself slipping down and down into nothing.

He's distantly aware of the supersoldier saying, "I'm right to stay with him. If, you know, you want to go to bed or anything."

But the darkness is nice and he can't be bothered dragging himself out of it long enough to respond.

At some point he realises he must have gone to sleep because it's light outside and he doesn't remember that happening. Doesn't remember fetching the green blanket that's draped over him and keeping him warm. Steve's dozing next to Loki still on the stool and at some point Loki seems to have kicked his covers back. One hand is twisted somewhere in his shirt and the other rests lightly on top of Steve's. He's snoring.

Tony wonders if he should snap a photo but he's got Jarvis and he really can't be bothered making the effort.

And then he's drifting off again, this time for real.

OoOoOoOoO

When he wakes, the first thing Loki knows is that he's no longer shaking.

He's still sore, but he is less sore than he was. Already his face is less swollen, and the bones in his broken fingers have started to knit together. Only his throat remains as raw as it had been, but that, he thinks, has more to do with thirst than any lingering hurt.

There's a rumbling sound from somewhere distant, and he frowns a little, opening his eyes.

He is in his room.

He is in his room and Tony is snoring near the window and Steve is dozing next to his bed and he can feel a sudden, inexplicable lump rising in his throat. A warmth in his chest which, if he takes the time to analyse it, might mean something close to ' _they care'_.

They care and they've _stayed_.

There's something warm beneath his good hand, and it's soft and pulsing and—alive? He looks down and it is resting lightly on Steve's. Steve who is still suited up and damp and who he now suspects has not just stayed but not left him at all.

He withdraws his hand regretfully.

It is... nice, resting there.

But he is thirsty and he wants to be able to say something if anyone asks questions and at the moment he doubts that he can.

He wants water.

He makes to sit up, and the motion tenses his stomach muscles and he winces at the bruised soreness. But it, too, is better than before and his muscles are actually working now. It is, he thinks, no worse than a training match with Thor.

Steve mumbles something in his sleep, and Loki stiffens. But the man doesn't wake, even when he climbs out of bed and pads over to the bathroom.

And then he is running the cold water down the sink and splashing it against his face.

There is no glass in here and he cannot be bothered going downstairs to fetch one. He drinks instead from his cupped hands and as the soothing wetness washes away the itching rawness in his throat— as he knows that once more he can _speak—_ he thinks that for all that it is chlorinated tap water he is swallowing, even the wines of Alfheim had never tasted so good.

By the time he has towelled his face off and returned, he is feeling more alert and refreshed than he has for days. And it's only nine so the odds are high that neither Barton nor Romanoff has left yet to contact Hill. Which is good.

Less good is the fact that he will need to go downstairs and talk to them soon.

But he has had worse duties than this before. And it is not so very bad. They, at least, can be relied upon not to feel sorry for him. But the longer he leaves this duty, the more chance there is that something will go wrong. That they will leave or send a text or do something he has not counted on or calculated.

He leaves the room, closing the door with a soft snick behind him.

"Jarvis?" he calls softly, "Are agents Barton and Romanoff up yet?"

"Yes, Mr Silvertongue. They are in the loungeroom. Captain Rogers requested earlier I tell them to delay their departure when they woke," the AI says, and as the soothing words rush over him he feels himself relaxing.

They have not left and they will not.

He has time. Time to get dressed and slick his hair back and hope the bruising looks less badly than he thinks it might before he comes downstairs.

Turning, he re-enters his room.

The first thing he notices, when he does so, is that Steve has stirred. He's shifted a little on his chair and is blinking groggily and he smiles a genuine, sleepy smile at him that makes him somehow want to smile back.

He allows his lips to curl upwards just a little.

"You are awake," he observes.

"That," Steve groans, yawning and stretching the stiffness out of his arms and back, "Is debatable. I think 'functional' might be a more accurate term. And now I'm starting to sound like a pre-coffee'd Tony."

Loki snorts, and then reminds himself that Tony is, in fact, still asleep.

"You wrong yourself. Tony is not half so coherent," he retorts, more softly.

Steve grins at that. And then he yawns again.

"You did not sleep well?" Loki asks

Steve shrugs.

"Well. I was in the chair," he offers, "And you were unconscious. I tend to stay awake thinking about things like that. Especially when they're my fault."

Loki frowns.

He'd thought they'd dealt with this _before._

"You neither wielded the needle nor struck the blows," he says.

"No," Steve agrees, "I just persuaded you to come with me outside and then left you there, alone, in the coffee shop."

Loki hesitates, frowning a little.

"You do not _need_ to feel guilty. It was my choice that I left."

Steve rakes a hand through his messy hair.

"Tell me. Would you feel at all bad if you took me out for coffee and _I_ was gone when you left for five minutes because a stranger wearing your face had lured me away? If I turned up tortured and bleeding and I said, when you managed to find me, that it was fine because I'd sort of hoped I _might_ be able to properly manipulate things if I went and since I had succeeded it was okay? Would you feel the slightest bit guilty that I'd felt I had to make that choice? That I'd been put in a position where it looked like the best one?"

Loki stiffens.

He has a sudden vision of Steve in the cell with the guards and the poison and mirrors—of Steve screaming and helpless and broken—and he has to force the vision away because suddenly he feels ill.

"Oh," he says.

The supersoldier is still looking at him and so he swallows and makes himself add:

"You were... worried?"

He is not _used_ to people worrying. Frigga worried over Baldur. Over Odin, when he slept. And _he_ did, he knows, over Asgard and Thor and—

But only Thor ever worried, sometimes, over _him._

"Of course I worried," Steve is saying, "It isn't like battle, when there are rules and everyone is prepared for the risks. This was—we were having _coffee_. And I couldn't even ring you because I'd forgotten to charge my phone."

_Forgotten to charge my phone._

Loki snickers.

It's poorly timed, but he welcomes the distraction it offers.

"What?" Steve asks warily.

"You and your phone. Tony said—and you said you were right for emergencies."

"It isn't funny," Steve insists.

"It is," Loki counters.

"It isn't."

"You looked so self righteous too, when you said you didn't need the lessons," he adds musingly.

"It isn't—I forgot to do it. Not _how_ to do it."

Loki grins at him unrepentantly.

Steve looks like if he weren't a mature superhero he might have thrown one of the pillows sitting temptingly beside him on the bed at him then. As it is, he just sighs and eyes them regretfully.

And then his smile fades.

"Well... anyway. I just wanted to say I was sorry."

The words are heavy but the air is clearer now. Clear enough for him to offer the supersoldier a smile and to say:

"Do not be. Even if I had had no plan, you _came_ for me. And Tony. And I—no one comes before I ask. Before I _beg._ Until I do I am left to work out my own solutions. A sign of respect, if you like. Or a tool to humble me. I never could decide which. But you did not make me ask."

Steve's lips thin.

"Have you _never_ used yourself as bait? To get information? Cause a distraction? For any reason at _all?"_

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

Loki takes that for the confirmation it is.

"You have. Why then is it so very different when _I_ do it?"

"Honestly? The same sort of difference there is between being shot in battle and being bashed to death outside a nightclub at three in the morning. It was unexpected. It wasn't planned. And even if you _were_ like Natasha in terms of having professionally signed up for it, I don't like watching my friends get tortured."

 _Friends_.

Always, when they use that word it defeats him.

Makes him feel warm somewhere deep inside.

"But you did not watch it," he says lightly.

"Semantics, Loki. I saw the aftermath. It was like—you should have seen yourself."

He shivers, suddenly.

He doesn't _like_ the thought of seeing himself.

Hates the mirrors and the lights which made that possible over and over and _over_ and-

"I confess that I am glad that you came," he manages to get out, smile fading, "I was not as prepared as I should have been. And I miscalculated, at the end. I am not sure how much of the blue he would have given me to find an answer I did not know how to give."

Steve frowns.

Loki steps forward and rests a tentative hand on his arm before he can speak.

"You do not _need_ to feel guilty. Not when you are already doing so much more for me—you and Tony—than anyone else ever has. You are dealing with SHIELD. With Polt. You do not just allow me to flounder and occasionally drag me from the deeper waters if you happen to notice I have sunk. You are stopping them from doing everything I hate. I would take more than the Chitauri's venom," Steve stiffens as he says that, and he isn't sure _why,_ "More than a mere beating, to destroy them all utterly."

And the words are true enough. Pain is a small enough price to pay to avenge himself. To protect what he cares for. And he cares for this corner of this realm as well as himself. For the coffee shop and the tower and for Tony and Steve who should care so much _less_ for him than they do.

For all of them, really, who should be dealing out petty humiliations and who have instead chosen so often to include him.

To make him feel like he _matters._

"Just to be clear, Robbie," a gravelly voice says off to the side and Loki twists about quickly and Tony's _awake,_ "If you're planning to make a habit of this, we _need_ to sort out some boundaries."

Loki blinks at him.

"Deal? Because seriously, what happened wasn't cool. No offense to your macho manliness and whatever. I still fully endorse the fact that you've got balls, just so we're clear. Not in doubt."

"But I manipulated them. I got the information," Loki says blankly.

"Yeah," Tony agrees, rubbing at his eyes with one fist, " _And you got tortured."_

Steve, he notes, is nodding and looking oddly grateful.

"It's not that we don't appreciate what you're prepared to do for us. But... just because you can take it doesn't mean you _have_ to. You know that, right?"

Loki frowns again.

They think he would prefer to do _nothing?_ The idea is absurd.

"And if I chose not to help? If I just," he searches blindly, "Painted? Worked in a coffee shop? Did nothing _useful?"_

"Working in a coffee shop _is_ useful," Tony says, with feeling.

"You'd still be welcome here," Steve says, meeting his eyes squarely, "I'm not saying I'd never ask for your advice. I would because, frankly, I've never met a better strategist, at least at mind games. And I'm not saying I wouldn't like you on my team. But I'd only want you to if _you_ wanted to. Not just because you felt you owed us or felt you had to to stay or something. I mean, if you hadn't stepped in, Polt'd be in and who knows what would be happening with the serum. You're- you don't owe us that."

They think he is doing this because he owes them a debt? And they do not wish to take _advantage_ of that?

It's... touching.

He does smile then, at them both, as he withdraws his hand.

"I wish to help," he says honestly, "Taking revenge is not, I promise you both, something I feel in any way _forced_ to do. But..." he thinks of Steve with Polt and the glaring brightness and almost he thinks he understands, "But I will _try_ not to be tortured again when it is avoidable. And when it is not, I will try harder to notify you of what is happening. When I want or do not want you to intervene."

Tony heaves a sigh of what might be relief.

"Makes my day to hear that one, Robbie. Seriously, what happened was not cool. On many levels."

Steve, too, looks a bit happier.

And he'd been aware, on some level, that they liked him but it's nice to _know._ To have it confirmed that they value him more than the information they seem to admire him for collecting anyway.

Which, now he thinks about it, he should probably warn them about.

"We may need to alter our plans a little though," Loki says abruptly.

"Oh?" Steve says.

"I _might_ have implied we were going to depose Fury sometime this week," Loki admits.

"You implied _what_ Robbie?"

Loki pastes on what he hopes is a mysterious smile.

"I will tell you more later. When I tell Barton and Romanoff. And Banner. There seems so little point, you understand, in saying everything twice."

Neither of them look entirely satisfied. But they don't object when he makes his way first to his chest of drawers and then away in the direction of his shower with a bundle of clothes, so he counts that a plus.

A minute or so later, he steps under the luxurious warmth and winces as it hits a bruise.

But it's nice and clean and he _wants_ this.

And now all he needs to do is hope that there _is_ a convention Fury is expected to attend this week. Or things could get very awkward very fast indeed.

OoOoOoOoO

In the end, Steve goes upstairs to get Bruce and Tony walks with Loki to the lounge.

They spend the walk arguing about whether or not, since Loki is of the opinion it's possible to use magic to bypass such pesky things as passwords and security data, it's also possible to use science to bypass such inconveniences as magical wards. Tony doesn't, admittedly, understand even _half_ of what Loki's saying but that trivial detail doesn't stop him from arguing that it is anyway.

Going by the half-friendly, half-mocking smile which curls Loki's lips through most of their conversation, Tony suspects the demigod probably knows quite well the counter arguments he's been offering him are mostly bullshit. But if he does, he doesn't call him on it.

Clint and Tasha are eating what looks to be a late breakfast when they walk in.

Or they had been. Now they're sitting straighter, food temporarily abandoned, looking professional. Or, in Clint's case, looking as though he's _trying_ to look professional, only that's just not possible to _do_ when you're him and eating Nutella on toast in pjs. Tasha's better off, if only because she seems to have gotten dressed and brushed her hair pre-rising. And, well, because she's Tasha. She'd probably look intimidating in a tutu and bunny slippers.

"What the fuck happened to your _face_?" Clint blurts out.

Loki's hand flies up self consciously to touch one swollen, bruised cheek, and he grimaces, glaring at the archer unpleasantly.

"And what are _you_ doing up before twelve Tony?" Tasha says.

"Tell you when Bruce gets here," Tony says comfortably.

Loki, too, refrains from replying.

Instead he makes his way closer to the table. Clint, still eyeing his face, is a second to slow to react when one hand darts out, lightning fast, and steals a slice of his toast.

"Hey! That's my breakfast," the archer says, pulling his plate in protectively.

Loki bites into his stolen prize, and swallows a mouthful.

"Since you care so much, you should spend more time watching your food and _less_ time eyeing me as though I am a rotting specimen of urban road kill."

And then Loki's eyes are lighting up appreciatively.

 _"This_ ," he peers at the jar, "is 'Nutella'?"

"Yep," Clint says shortly, still scowling at him.

"I like it," the demigod declares.

He takes another mouthful and sinks into the couch, fingers tapping idly on the armrest.

Clint mutters something darkly about Loki at least having taste if not manners that gets a grin from the demigod.

And then Tony turns his back on them all and gravitates over to the kitchen.

He needs coffee and a proper breakfast.

When he gets to it, the coffee maker's hot already from Clint and Tasha's breakfast but he flicks it on again anyway just to be sure.

And, after pouring in some batter, he turns on the waffle iron too.

Then he settles himself against the side of the bench and waits.

OoOoOoOoO

Bruce looks tired when he walks in with Steve.

But since they all look tired, Tony's prepared to set that one aside for now.

There's silence, for a bit, punctuated by the 'ping' of the waffle iron and the coffee machine, and Tony pours himself a cup of steaming coffee and smothers his waffle in maple syrup before making his way over to the table and patting the seat next to him invitingly for the doctor.

Obligingly, Bruce takes the seat.

He doesn't look surprised by Loki's face, so Tony suspects Steve's filled him in on the basics.

"You know, now that we're all here, if any of you wanted to explain what the _hell_ was going on I wouldn't mind," Clint remarks.

Loki rises and dusts the crumbs off his shirt.

"I was captured last night by Polt's men," the demigod starts, dramatically.

Clint stiffens.

"I thought- Jarvis? And how are you _here_ then?"

"I was rescued by Steve. And Tony. And it was not Jarvis' fault. I went outside for coffee with Steve," Loki clarifies, "And was insufficiently watchful for shapeshifters. By the time I realised it was not Steve guiding me, it was too late to escape unharmed. I decided to gather what information I could during their... questioning."

Tasha sits up a bit at that.

"Yes?" Bruce says, frowning.

"I discovered that they have, in fact, _always_ known I was here. That they know Banner is here. That their objective is, or was, to capture him. And me, though I am no longer needed alive," Loki adds with a thin, unpleasant smile, "I have learned that they still need Fury removed. That they have access to a venom with which you would do well to pray you are never injected. That they have no qualms about torturing myself. Or my 'kind'."

"No shit," Clint says, eyes fixed unflatteringly on Loki's face.

The demigod's eyes narrow.

"Go on," Tasha says.

After a moment or so, he does.

"I was able to persuade them that we intend to act soon to bring down Fury at a convention. Only," and here Loki flushes a little, "I do not, in fact, know about them. I seem to recall- but nothing specific. _Are_ there any Fury would be expected to attend?"

Clint frowns for a moment.

"Well... there aren't any _conventions_. There are some presentations coming up, I think. Some new weapon thing that can stun you- sonic, I think. I forget who designed it. Next week sometime. We think HYDRA's going to try stealing the info it so Fury was going to be on call. And there's a presentation on the Foster Theory in two days. Something about interdimensional travel that's worlds away from getting anywhere. But it's got a hell of a lot of funding. Important people there who want to see what they've paid for. So... yep. Fury again, for damage control."

Loki's face gets a sudden sharpness to it.

"Oh shit. You're going to pick Jane, aren't you? Look, she's not even presenting it," Clint says.

"Huh?" Tony manages to produce around a mouthful of waffle, "Wait, what don't I know? Why would you- who's Jane?"

"Thor's girlfriend," Tasha says succinctly in an undertone.

"I said we were planning to ruin Fury this week," Loki says stiffly, "And a presentation is _almost_ a convention. And I would hate to go back on my word."

 _"You'd_ hate to lie," Clint snorts.

Why don't you like her?" Steve asks, curiously.

"I have no feelings towards her one way or the other," Loki says unconvincingly, but with an air of virtue, "I simply feel that, as things stand, the longer we leave this the more factors which are likely to go wrong. _Especially_ now that we know they know that Banner is here. And that they want him."

_Low blow Robbie._

"...So you want to plan things to ruin that particular presentation?" Tony says.

"Essentially? Yes. And if possible, what we would most like is for _Polt_ to be there too."

"How?" Bruce says, sceptically.

Tony doesn't blame him. How is what _he's_ wondering too.

Loki frowns thoughtfully.

"Well. Could Fury...?"

Tasha shakes her head.

"Too obvious. There's no reason _but_ this for him to make contact."

"... True," Loki concedes.

"Does he _need_ to be there?" Steve asks.

"Well... no. But it would be poetic justice, would it not? If we _could_ destroy him in his moment of triumph, just when he thought it would be Fury who would truly fall," Loki says.

Bruce's lips twitch.

"Can we do practical first, poetic later?"

Clint snorts again and Loki sighs, deflating a little.

Steve coughs, a bit, awkwardly.

"Is there any real reason to change the original plan? Can't we still talk to Fury and get him to arrest him? Now we know he's guilty and they're not expecting it? I mean, I know you said you would but do we really _need_ to worry about deposing Fury when we don't really want him gone at all?" Steve asks.

There's silence for a bit, while Loki digests that.

"But this is _neater_. We would depose Fury in public, watch with feigned joy as Polt was elected, and then, once we had dealt with whatever hold he has over Fury, if he does have one, we would wait for him to make a mistake. His guilt would be assured, for he would not be aware we knew to watch for whatever act he takes to confirm his guilt. He would be unwary. And then we would confront him. Perhaps record it, before we killed him. It is _neater_ than relying on Fury," Loki repeats. " _That_ plan is distressingly simple."

"Okay, well, I call for a vote," Tony says, "Because, no offence Robbie, but plan A sounds better to me. I'm with Steve."

Loki looks hurt.

Steve visibly wavers. Tony, made of firmer stuff, doesn't.

"Bruce?" he says.

"I'm with Tony," the doctor says apologetically, "No offence, Loki, but I don't see Fury getting back in if what happened while he was in charge is made public. And I'm not sure I'd trust whoever got called in to replace him."

"Yeah. I'm with Bruce. And don't even _try_ that face on me. I'm immune to the puppy-dog look," Clint says.

"I prefer the original plan. Going to Fury through Hill," Tasha agrees, "Your new plan has too much room for error. But we should act sooner, I think, rather than later, if we don't want them to call your bluff."

Loki scowls.

"Very well. But Romanoff? Ask Hill questions to which only the _true_ her would know the answers before you tell her anything."

Tasha nods.

And then she's disappearing upstairs with Clint.

When they're gone, Loki rounds on Tony.

"If the plan fails, Tony, I blame you," he says, unfairly.

And Tony isn't a superstitious man but he really wishes that the sun hadn't chosen that _exact_ moment to disappear behind the gathering clouds.


	30. Trust and a Waiting Game

It isn't so much that Tony feels _intimidated_ by Loki.

That is kind of impossible with the whole beaten victim thing he's got going. And even if it hadn't been going, Tony just doesn't _do_ scared. Even one arc reactor away from being mind-sticked, even one suit off being splattered like moldy meatloaf on the side-walk, he hadn't been afraid.

Nope. Panicked, he recalls, and annoyed that Jarvis hadn't deployed a bit _sooner,_ but not afraid.

So the fact that he shifts uncomfortably when Loki's essentially told him if this gets screwed _he_ does has nothing to do with being shaken and everything to do with the stricken look in the demigod's eyes. The half haunted, half accusing look which says more, 'If the plan fails it won't be _you_ who gets tortured,' than it does, 'I'll make you suffer'.

It's the look that makes him itch to punch something or maybe reach for a tumbler and offer him a scotch, only he's pretty sure Pepper's coming over this evening, and drinking before midday while injured isn't really something he should be helping Loki to do even if she wasn't.

"You alright?" he asks, instead.

Because now he thinks of it, no. He doesn't seem to recall asking Loki that when he woke or back in the abandoned building and he probably really should have.

Even if he's pretty sure he knows the answer anyway, and almost certainly won't get it.

Sure enough, Loki blinks at him and Tony's watching the eyes when they shift. When the rawness is replaced by the familiar, faintly sarcastic amusement so suddenly that the emotion in them _has_ to be fake. But there's no lie there. And he wonders, suddenly, if it wasn't that whoever tortured Loki was incompetent but just that the demigod was so much _better_ at faking things that sending him in against anyone except Tasha is like sending a Pit bull up against a  Chihuahua .

Only in real life he doesn't think he'd be cheering the former on.

And... wait. Is he speaking?

"... course I am alright," Loki is saying coolly, "Why would I not be?"

Tony can think of several reasons.

Loki's eyes dare him to day them.

"You do know your fingers are broken, right?" Bruce calls over near the toaster, "I didn't like to say earlier but I couldn't help noticing them when you kept favouring your left hand."

"Broken?" Tony echoes.

They're not, are they? It's—

"Yes," Loki says, turning to look in Bruce's direction, "But only _two_ of them are so. And they will heal."

He says it dismissively. Rationally. And rationally, Tony knows it's probably just from SHEILD's cells that he knows it, if the arm fixed itself in four days, and that growing up in Asgard was probably like growing up in the dark ages but with magic and without the story books because all the heroes were probably still alive to make sure their stories got told right, which has to skew perspective on grading injuries. But the rest of him really doesn't like the mental pictures his mind keeps painting of the sort of stuff that'd have to have happened, how many times it had to have happened, to make broken fingers seem like nothing.

"Do they hurt?" Bruce asks.

Tony hopes that's rhetorical, because otherwise he's going to be re-evaluating Bruce's intelligence.

Loki, though, isn't saying yes. Nope. He's shaking his head, which is—

"Not now or not ever?" Tony prods.

"Not when I do not move them," Loki admits, caught.

"That's not all that reassuring, Robbie."

"This is _exactly_ why I did not want you to know," Loki groans. "If it makes you feel better, they will probably be fixed by tomorrow. Two days, at most. They are easier than my arm, and there isn't nearly as much of me to heal as there was when you— as _then._ There is nothing to worry about. I do not want you to worry about me."

"Sorry about telling," Bruce says, not sounding very sorry at all.

Loki sends a half-hearted glare in his direction.

"So... can I plaster them?" Tony asks.

The demigod's eyes snap back to him and his lips thin with what Tony suspects might be exasperation.

"They will be healed in a day. They do not _need_ plastering, Tony."

"True, but it would make me feel better."

Loki hesitates.

Tony gives him the puppy eyes.

"I—stop it, Tony," Loki says, lips twitching.

Tony lowers it from 'Puss-in-Boots' to 'Thor'.

"You know we think it sucks when you're hurting, right?" he adds, "And broken fingers aren't nice. Broken _anything_ isn't nice."

Loki looks like, no, it hadn't occurred to him. He's brows are furrowed just a little and he tilts his head slightly to one side.

"C'mon," Tony expostulates, "We've told you we're your friends _how_ many times?"

The demigod starts to frown.

"Many," he eventually concedes.

He looks like he's either thinking or just ignoring him and hoping Tony will drop the issue and leave him alone. But Tony's inclined to think it's the former and if that is just wishful thinking, well, there's no one to call him on it. A minute or so later, Loki's eyes refocus on him.

"It will truly make you feel better?" he demands.

"Yep," Tony confirms.

"I— very well. You may plaster it then, since you insist. But _only_ because you are so irritatingly persistent."

Tony grins at him.

"Nice of you. Tell me though, is it an Asgardian—,"

"—Aesir," Loki corrects him.

"An _Aesir_ thing to not want your wounds treated or a _you_ thing?"

There's silence, for a bit.

"Well. Aesir, I suppose," Loki says at length, and, no, it does not surprise him at all that that's the answer. "But it is not that I _mind_ my wounds being treated. There is nothing _wrong_ with visiting the healers when one's life is in danger – when one's stomach has been sliced open, for example, or when one has been struck down by sorcery or when one has been impaled by a spear of Jotun ice. It is just considered to be less than admirable to take up the time of healers who _could_ be treating injuries like those with ailments that, however discomforting, will heal on their own in one day anyway."

And when he puts it like that... yeah. Tony can sort of see their point. But just because he can see it doesn't mean he has to _like_ it.

Loki eyes him a moment longer.

And then he's trotting away, first to the fridge and then to the waffle iron and deftly opening the bottle and pouring the batter in with one hand. Tony pauses only to retrieve the plastered bandages from his personalised first aid kit before following.

"You don't want me to do it? Being a doctor and all?" Bruce asks.

Tony pauses in wetting the bandages to look at him.

"Isn't your 'Doctor' a PhD title?"

"It is," Bruce admits, "But I have had experience in the hospitals overseas. They weren't too worried about qualifications over there. Not when there was no one else."

And that does sound vaguely familiar, now he thinks about it.

He's about to say that that sounds good, but Loki speaks before he can.

"Tony will be fine. But I thank you for your offer, Banner."

The words are polite but there's no room for negotiation in Loki's tone.

Almost, Tony wants to protest.

But they _are_ his fingers, and he _is_ letting them be plastered for them. And he can't say he blames him if he's doing it for the reasons he thinks he might be. He knows _he'd_ take Pepper's less than expert aid in anything personal ahead of anyone he didn't fully trust.

"Your choice," he says.

"It is," Loki agrees.

There's a sudden pop as Bruce's toast finishes, and the doctor fishes out the two slices onto a plate.

"I guess I'll leave you to it then," he says.

"Indeed," Loki says, pushing himself lightly onto the benchtop.

Bruce nods and turns to leave the kitchen.

For a moment, Tony watches him leave.

And then Loki extends a regal hand. His right one.

"Do hurry, Tony. I do not wish to burn my waffle."

_Fair enough._

It takes mere minutes to do the job. And if Loki doesn't look entirely comfortable once he's finished, at least he looks better than he had as he sits there, waiting for the plaster to set. So Tony gives himself a mental pat on the back for a good job done. Then he stars cleaning up.

"Tony?" Loki says, as he does so, "I—Thank you."

"Not a problem," Tony says, sending him his best grin, "You're not competing with the stomach-cut people here."

Loki lets out an undignified snort, and goes back to staring at his fingers. Tony watches him for a moment longer, without acknowledgement.

Then he heads around the corner to join Bruce and Steve on the couches.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki tries not to think too much about anything while he sits there, waiting.

Just lets his gaze drift downwards to the vinyl floor. It reminds him a little of the marble floors of the old watchtowers near the southern gate, with its pale cream and its flecks and false veins of grey and maroon. With the chaos of senseless colour that is almost... mesmerising. Only, unlike the marble, this imitation is warm.

He thinks he likes Tony's floor more.

And then, unwillingly, his thoughts are drifting inwards to more important matters.

To the plan. SHIELD.

_Revenge._

It is... not admirable, perhaps. But then, why _should_ he be admirable?

He has never claimed to be better than Polt.

He has never claimed, since those few days when he'd first found out what sort of creature he truly _was,_ to be better or more than the monster he is.

Only, he remembers Tony's face when he'd told him what he'd wanted to do and he wonders what would happen if he truly did do it. Wonders what Steve's and Tony's faces would say if he showed him what he was like on the inside _—_ not the side he _wants_ him to see but the hate and the bitterness and the senseless delight in pointless chaos. The side that watched as their city burned and smiled.

His good fingers curl around the edges of the bench and he's glad, suddenly, that Tony has solid wood benches and not the chipboard stuff he has read about. Glad because otherwise he thinks, as he sees his knuckles whiten, it would probably have chipped or dented under the strain.

And then he's jerked out of his thoughts by a cough.

His eyes fly up, startled, and it's Steve.

Just Steve.

"Yes?" he says.

If the supersoldier notices the tightness in his voice, he's kind enough not to comment.

"Bruce and Tony are talking science. And... well, I just thought I might come over and talk to you for a bit. If you don't mind."

"Oh? What are they discussing?" he asks.

"If I understood enough to know that," Steve says ruefully, "I mightn't have needed to make a strategic retreat from the conversation. I think it was something to do with radiation and electricity though."

Loki's lips twitch upwards into a smile.

"It usually is," he says.

There's a sudden 'ping' as the contraption at his elbow announces that its task is complete. The next minute passes in silence, save for the clatter of plates and cutlery and the rattling of the fridge. If he listened hard he could probably hear Tony and Bruce discussing whatever it is that they are talking about, but he doesn't.

Just focuses on getting the waffle on his plate and dribbling on exactly the right amount of the sticky syrup he likes best.

Then he draws himself up a stool and seats himself at the bench, gesturing gracefully for Steve to do the same.

"You like waffles," Steve observes, watching him eat.

"I do," Loki agrees, "But then, as you so sapiently observed, I like most sweet foods. And pizza. And Pepper's pasta."

"But not takeaway," Steve says.

"Not too _much_ of it," Loki corrects him, "I find the grease annoying. The taste itself is most satisfactory. _Especially_ the sweet and sour pork."

Steve selects an apple from the fruit bowl and starts chewing.

There's silence again, while they both eat.

Then Steve says:

"So... Loki. I was thinking, last night, it was... bad. What happened. And I was wondering how you'd feel about my training you to use some more of our weapons here. If you were interested, that is. I mean, I know you can spar well and use a staff and your daggers, but I didn't know if you were interested in learning to use a taser. When your hand gets better."

A million thoughts are swirling and crashing inside his head, and he could have cursed himself for his stupidity when all that comes out is:

"Not a gun?"

"Well. If you wanted to learn I could teach you that too. But mostly I just wanted to give you a non-lethal solution to that sort of situation which doesn't involve you getting tortured again. You know, just in case. There's capsicum spray too, if you like that option better."

Loki swallows.

They _trust_ him.

And he'd known they had, because there's nothing they've said or done to suggest they don't and they listen when he offers advice in a way Thor hasn't for years. Centuries, even. But to give him weapons—more, trust him enough to use them correctly when they aren't there to watch, without threats or penalties, simply because they don't _like_ him being defenceless...

He can _feel_ the warmth creeping back inside.

Steve's still staring at him and belatedly it occurs to him that the man is waiting for a reply.

"I would like that," he admits.

Steve grins.

And it goes straight into his eyes the way it always does and he doesn't deserve this and he's _never_ deserved this and he knows that he would fight with everything he had to stop anyone—even himself—from taking it away.

OoOoOoOoO

By the time Barton and Romanoff get back downstairs, the plaster is dry.

Dry and signed by Steve and Tony and Banner, and looking decidedly less bare and white than it had when Tony had insisted on putting it on.

The agents enter the room looking very professional, Loki thinks. All dark leather and straps and weapons. And if he thinks that perhaps Barton does not _need_ two arm-guards for his archery, he cannot deny that it makes his former minion look impressive.

"Well. Wish us luck, I guess," Barton says.

"Yeah. Good luck," Tony says.

"And don't get caught," Bruce adds.

"And if you do believe that you have been compromised, _contact_ us," Loki says.

Tasha sends him a look.

"We'll contact you by this evening. By phone or in person. If we don't, you'll know something's happened."

He holds her gaze for a moment and he can't read her.

"Very well," he says, "And I neglected to mention it earlier, but do watch the air vents carefully. I believe the venom they used was able to be nebulised. It smells vaguely like a strong acid, and as I said, it is blue. If you breathe it in, if it is present in any great concentration, you _will_ fall. It hurts too much to do anything else."

Their eyes narrow almost in unison as they turn towards him.

"Just how painful are we talking about here?" Barton demands.

Loki frowns.

"Bad," he says, because he doesn't know how to describe it.

Doesn't know what else to compare it to.

"How bad?" Barton asks, unhelpfully.

"It feels like—," Loki searches blindly, "My collar did, a little, when you shot it. Only everywhere, and no place to remove to make everything _stop_."

And they haven't felt his collar, so that probably doesn't help them either.

"I always imagined the Cruciatus curse would feel something like it," he finishes, trying to read Barton's face to see if he's understood.

If he's said enough for them.

Barton looks vaguely sick.

Romanoff doesn't. But then, he knows her face is as false a mask as his own.

"Do you think oxygen masks would help?" Bruce asks, from somewhere around the corner that he suspects is near to Tony.

"They might," Romanoff says, "Though not from injection. Or ingestion. But we're trained for dealing with _them_."

"So yeah," Barton concludes, "We'll take the masks. If you've got any. Be embarrassing to fail the job just because some alien essence of crucio fucked us up."

"I've got them," Tony confirms, "Just hold on a moment, and I'll grab 'em for you."

There's a creak and a shifting from the couch, and then Tony's walking past headed for the lifts.

"Any other last minute details anyone wants to spring on us?" Barton says.

"Not really," Loki replies.

No one says anything for a little while after that, until Steve straightens on his stool.

"What time do you think you will get back?" he asks.

The agents exchange a look.

"Not sure," the archer admits, "I mean, things could either go really good, and we could be called in to arrest Polt. In which case we mightn't be back for days. Or shit could hit the fan and we'd still be home late. But if things go averagely, and they want to plan anything, I reckon we'd be back before tenish."

Which, Loki decides, isn't really _helpful_.

"But we'll contact you by ten at the latest, whichever way things play out," Romanoff says.

There's a heartbeat of silence. Then she adds:

"Unless we're compromised."

It's cold comfort. But it is the best he has.

Loki nods.

And then the doors are opening again and Tony rejoins them with two breathing masks dangling from a finger.

"In-built filtration and oxygen tanks," he says, throwing them, "Should give you an hour, at least."

Romanoff catches hers, securing it in a pocket somewhere at her waist. Barton, too, snatches his mid flight.

"Thanks, Tony," he says.

And then, with another waved farewell, they're gone.

And in their wake there is only an uneasy, brooding silence.

OoOoOoOoO

After half an hour of doing nothing except try to break the quiet, Tony rises.

It's not that he has a problem with silence. But he prefers it to be more of a temporary thing and he definitely doesn't like it when the tension in it is thick enough to swim through. He wants to relax. Scratch that, he _needs_ to. And while alcohol is promising, fiddling around with the new laser he's so _nearly_ perfected is better, and he really doesn't think Pepper will be pleased if he's drinking before twelve again anyway.

Tony pushes himself out of his chair and upwards.

Loki looks up as he does so.

"Where are you going?"

"Workshop," Tony says simply, "Laser."

"I thought Barton said you did not _like_ building weapons anymore," the demigod says.

And the tone isn't questioning—not quite. But the words strike just near enough to home to make him skip the _"Did he now"_ he could have said and answer the implied question he knows is being asked.

"I don't like _selling_ them anymore," he clarifies, "Not when I can't trust people who aren't me to do things like make sure they're only sold to our side not used by terrorists. But c'mon, no weapons at all? What would you call the suit?"

"Hypocrisy?" Loki suggests.

Tony snorts.

"Funny, Robbie. No really."

Loki twists his lips upwards into something vaguely resembling a smile.

And then that silence he's tried _four_ times now to break descends again.

"Well. You know where I am if you need me," he says, setting off towards the door.

"May I come too? To watch?" Loki calls out from behind him.

He sounds vaguely unsure of his welcome but not half so much as he had that first time he'd tried to say he wanted to learn. But then, that was computers and this is weapons, so maybe he has a reason to be doubtful. Tony considers the dangers of teaching Loki to use weapons for all of one second.

"Sure," he says.

Because why not?

He's already more dangerous than most of the weapons he'll probably never need to use again the instant they get that collar off.

And then Loki's risen and joined him and is asking about how lasers are generated, like he'd known he would, and when he answers him his face is does that _thing_ again where is eyes light up and lose the defensive hardness. The one which makes his mind draw parallels between the demigod and a hedgehog he'd once seen being tempted out of its ball for an offering of slugs.

By the time they reach the workshop, Loki's moved on to asking how they're focused and what they _do._

And it's... not bad, working with Loki.

He needs to be told a couple of times that Tony doesn't like being handed things directly, but he never seems to mind or ask why, which is a plus. And he doesn't mind getting his fingers dirty or his face smudged with grease, even if Tony does tell him it makes him look ridiculous. Just retorts that so does Tony and smears some on his arm when he's working and can't dodge it.

He grins at his handiwork like he's done something clever.

It's... fun.

And for a while, he can almost forget about the SHIELD situation. Not that he's _worried_ or anything.

But it's harder when it gets later.

When his phone buzzes with a text which is just from Pepper confirming she'll be over for dinner. _With_ dinner, now he reads the rest of it. When it buzzes the second time and it's Rhodey sending him a photo of nowhere he knows and nothing he recognises and calling it a business shot. And each time Loki's face grows suddenly tight and waxy and he nods curtly when Tony says 'just Pepper' and 'Just Rhodey'.

Neither of them say much after those calls.

Just... work harder until the tension sort of goes again.

Wait for Jarvis to say 'they're here' or for the phone to say another message has arrived.

And Tony tells himself that of course nothing has gone wrong. Of course it hasn't. Tasha and Clint aren't even late yet.

He says so, once, just after Steve pops downstairs with a pizza for them with the news that they've missed lunch and that he's going out for his jog.

Loki agrees.

There's _hours_ left before ten.

It's harder to ignore at nine when Jarvis says Pepper's there with the pasta and they have to leave and go upstairs.

Harder, when he meets Loki's eyes, to ignore the tightness there.

One hour. One hour until they know that something, somewhere has gone seriously wrong.

And even as he tells himself it'll be fine, Tony wonders:

If he's wrong, what the _hell_ do they do next?


	31. Compromised

Pepper, when they arrive upstairs, is seated next to Bruce doing paperwork.

 _Paperwork_.

There should, Tony thinks, be a rule against that.

Because no one, not even Pepper, should be calm enough—be able to _concentrate_ enough—to do that right now. And she smiles at him too, when he enters, and there's nothing strained in it. It's like this is a normal night. Just a normal dinner at Stark Tower. No missing agents. No call that needs to come and no door that needs to open right now to make everything okay.

And then her eyes slip to the side and widen.

"What _happened?_ "

Tony blinks and follows her gaze.

Loki. She's looking at Loki.

And it's not quite shocked horror in her voice. There is definitely some worry-slash-pity there that's making Loki retreat into himself faster than _he_ disappears when his one night stands try to corner him the morning after, but there's anger there, too. And her forehead is scrunched up like it gets when she's confused about anything and suddenly an unwelcome suspicion seizes him.

He looks at Bruce accusingly.

"Wait, you didn't _tell_ her?"

Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose apologetically.

"She's been here for ten minutes, Tony. It didn't come up."

"That's your excuse? 'Don't worry, by the way, if Loki looks like the Hulk sat on him because it was Polt and it's all fine now' didn't come _up_?"

"You are always so good for my self-esteem," Loki murmurs to the side.

Tony ignores that.

"C'mon Buddy. Seriously?"

Bruce's lips twitch.

"Well. I didn't quite like to interrupt her paperwork."

"That, buddy, is the second weakest excuse I've heard in months," Tony tells him roundly.

"Tony," Pepper cuts in, "What do you mean, Polt got him?"

"What he says," Loki says unhelpfully, giving Pepper a tight-lipped smile.

And it's only then that he notices that he can _see_ Loki's lips again, as opposed to the swollen, bruised mass they'd been this morning. He wonders if his stomach's healing too, or if anything in there got ruptured. But of course it is. If he healed after SHIELD's cells then of course he's healing and he really, really can't afford to be thinking about those mirrors right now.

 _Focus_.

A moment later, he manages to. He turns to Pepper and gives her the short version. Namely the coffee shop. Steve. Polt. The serum and the punches and his own role in the rescue.

"With Steve," he adds, just because.

Loki has a tight, distant look in his eyes.

And he knows that look. He's seen it in the mirror more times than he can count after Afghanistan whenever what happened gets brought up. Remembers it from after the reporters asked and from that one time Pepper had hugged him when she'd caught him drinking after Obie's funeral and he'd known that somehow, impossibly, she'd _known_.

The look that's as much a wordless cry of ' _I-hate-this'_ as it is a scream of _'stop'._

He makes himself keep talking. Keeps the focus on himself.

It's not hard.

Talking is what he _does_ when stressed.

He launches into a five minute little speech about the duties of friends to not leave the breaking of bad news to their other friends. Or, indeed, to now allow the _springing_ of news like that on their other friends, which admittedly is more for Pepper's benefit than his own. By the time he's done that and opted to ignore the way Bruce's lips have been twitching at all the wrong parts, Loki has made his way over the table and has planted himself in front of one of the bowls, eyes fixed sightlessly on nothing.

He's not exactly pathetic there on his own, but Tony can't say he's sorry when Steve enters the room a couple of minutes later and joins him.

Nor is he sorry when Steve calls out a polite:

"Does anyone mind if we start?"

Nope. Not sorry at all. They are, he suspects, the only two who are hungry and while he could blame not eating on being full from the pizza, _I'm-sorry-but-we're-talking-right-now_ is just easier.

And Steve still hasn't started yet so he calls out a belated:

"Go for it, Cap."

Because right now, the only thing he feels like is a cheeseburger.

It's nine thirty six and nothing has come.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki doesn't feel much of anything as he sits there.

Dinner is nice, of course, the way it usually is. Has the same spicy, tomato and meat filled sauce. The same hollow pasta logs, warm and just slightly soggy. And he _knows_ he is hungry because he hasn't eaten since he'd finished off Steve's pizza at three, but somehow his stomach seems to have shrunk since then and it's hard to fit the food in.

He is drifting in thought.

Lost in memory.

In the bitterness and burning coldness. In the mirrors and the lights and the hands and he doesn't _want_ Barton or Romanoff to be there too. Doesn't want them to have failed that badly. He has managed to avoid seeing the footage of himself thus far, but he can imagine it easily. So easily. The pathetic, miserable form lying broken and bleeding on the ground. Unable to speak properly. Unable to swallow. Barely able to _move_.

He doesn't _want_ to imagine brown and red hair in place of the black.

"You alright?" he hears Steve ask.

He nods, because he is.

Only, the fear will not _stop._

Behind him, Tony's conversation seems somehow to have morphed from an impromptu lecture into a discussion of musical tastes. Which seems to involve, he thinks, a lot of insistence upon the superiority of AC/DC over Fred-someone, or Opera or any other of the numerous options being put forth by Banner and Potts.

And suddenly he is tired of waiting.

 _Can't_ wait anymore.

They have played their hand and if it has failed than they cannot go wrong now. No more wrongly than they have already.

He twists about in his chair to look at Tony. At Banner and Potts too, but mostly Tony.

"Tony," he says.

No response.

 _"Tony,"_ he says again, more sharply.

The mortal looks around then, eyebrows raised a bit.

"Yeah?"

"You hacked into SHIELD's monitoring systems when you found me, did you not?" he says.

The question is rhetorical, but Tony nods anyway.

"Yep."

"How easy do you think it would be to do so again?"

The man is silent for a moment.

"Well. Pretty easy, I think," he offers at last, "I mean, we're already in their systems when we need to be. Still. Can't _swear_ they won't detect us."

Steve frowns.

"It's not ten yet."

"I know that," Loki says, turning back to face the supersoldier, "But ten was the latest. Ten was the _limit._ We need to do something, and the easiest something is to look at the SHIELD camera systems to see what is happening."

"Certainly it's something they'd expect us to do even if we were still after Fury," Banner allows.

Loki sends him a thin smile.

"Exactly."

Tony looks between them for a second or two.

"I'm lost here. Do we think they do or don't know what we're up to?"

"We _don't know,"_ Loki says, and he knows he's not sounding calm.

He sounds small and desperate and weak and he doesn't _want_ SHIELD to know. Doesn't want to be taken _back._

"We don't know," he says again, more normally, "And that is what we need to find out."

He eyes Tony for a moment, wondering if he needs to say more. But the man's eyes are dark with thought and if he's already thinking he cannot bring himself to make the effort. Instead, he lets his thoughts drift to nothing and everything and tries to hold his glass losely enough to avoid breaking it.

It's too long and not long enough when Tony speaks.

"Fair enough. We doing this now? Or after ten?"

Loki opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

"... After," he says, reluctantly, because there's no logical difference waiting fifteen minutes will make, and it's only after ten o'clock that they _need_ to do something.

"After. But... you have your laptop here?"

It's not a fair question. He knows Tony doesn't because they'd used it for the laser research which Tony seems to hope will cut through anything and which at the moment cannot manage more than old suits and steel. Only he wants it now because there isn't _time_ and he hates waiting and he doesn't want to wait any more than he needs to once the minute hand ticks past ten.

Tony frowns a bit.

"Well. I don't have it _with_ me. It's in the workshop."

A pause. Then:

"Want me to fetch it?"

Loki nods and shoots him a grateful look he can't be bothered trying to disguise.

"If you would."

Tony eyes him a moment longer and he wonders, suddenly, just what it is the man can see in his face. Wonders what makes the mortal's lips suddenly thin and the brown eyes darken.

"Right. Be back in five, Robbie," he says.

And then he's going and going and gone.

It takes Tony ten minutes to retrieve his laptop.

It's nine fifty six now, and no call has come.

And Loki knows then that none will.

OoOoOoOoO

It takes Tony all of one minute to put in the command for 'Operation Waternoose' when the new hour ticks over.

And right now, if he hadn't been the man the media had loved to hate and dealt with all the pressure that entailed for twenty years, he might have felt discomforted by the stares of, well, all of them as he waits for the program to work. As he mentally crosses his fingers for a non-detected entry to SHIELD's system and hopes they haven't repaired that little security breech from two days ago.

But he is so he doesn't.

Instead he slews around enough to look pointedly at Loki, the main culprit, and says:

"You know compulsive staring isn't going to make this go faster, right?"

He's rewarded by a careless lift of one eyebrow.

"I do. But there is nothing better to stare at just now."

Tony considers that for a moment.

"Fair enough," he conceeds.

"I thought so," Loki agrees.

His hands are gripping the armrests of his chosen seat hard enough to make the tendons stand out and he's frowning at the monitor as though he can get the bar to move faster through pure force of will.

He doesn't, by any stretch of the imagination, look happy.

Tony eyes him a moment longer.

Then he gives up and turns back to the screen.

It's not like any of them really feel good right now knowing Clint and Tasha are compromised and the plan's shot to pieces and there's not a single thing they can do except sit here uselessly and wait.

In the event, it takes the program five minutes to access the camera recordings and the live feed.

And then they're in and accessing the cameras and is that—? Every operating brain cell screams no but it _has_ to be. Because unless he's really drunk, which he's _not,_ he knows where he's breaking into when he hacks a system.

He looks around to gage everyone else's reactions because this is just _wrong._

Pepper is staring at the screen, blue eyes wide.

Loki is stiffening.

Bruce is leaning forwards as though he can negate what's there by squinting _harder_ and Steve is starting to frown.

"Is that _SHIELD?"_ Pepper demands, voice dangerously high.

There's a moment of silence.

Awkward silence, where Tony doesn't want to answer it because answering makes it somehow real.

Then Loki says, "It would seem so," in a flat, impassive tone and all Tony can think is nothing. Because what he can see—what's being showed on the cameras that aren't black and dead and not _working_ —looks to be the aftermath of a raid on a HYDRA lair. SHIELD should be neat. Ordered. All grey corridors and metal beams and nameless, uniformed agents typing at desks and patrolling corridors.

It shouldn't be littered with bodies.

Shouldn't be in lockdown mode with every door closed and the air shouldn't be tinged by an odd sort of haze and it shouldn't be absolutely dead quiet.

Eerily quiet.

"Access a different camera," Loki says, sharply.

"Yeah," Tony agrees, because this wasn't supposed to happen.

Tasha and Clint were supposed to go to Hill and she was supposed to go to Fury and Fury was supposed to get Polt and this _wasn't supposed to happen_.

And where _are_ Tasha and Clint?

"Jarvis," Loki says, "I want Fury's office. The training rooms. The- anywhere people are still _alive._ And Jarvis? If they have them, replay the security recordings too."

"Yes, Mr Silvertongue."

Tony's very conscious of Pepper, pale and silent, behind him. And he sort of wishes he hadn't accessed this with her because he knows she hates dead bodies and him being in danger and this combo isn't going to be helping her.

No one says anything for the next couple of minutes.

Then:

"I am sorry, Mr Silvertongue," Jarvis says, "But the security footage seems to be deleted."

Tony swears.

Then he stalks away to the drinks counter to pour himself a scotch.

"And the survivors?" Loki says, from behind him.

"No one appears to be moving, Mr Silvertongue, though that is not necessarily conclusive. I am unable to tell vital signs from mere visuals. But a number of cameras appear to have been shot, and those in the air vents and the eastside complex do seem to be disabled."

And no, Tony's fingers are _not_ shaking as he pours himself his drink.

He downs half of it in one hit.

"So Fury's..." he can't make himself say it.

"Or he knew his base was compromised and took himself offline," Loki says, still staring at the silent halls and twisted bodies, "If I am correct—if that haze is what I think it is—Polt gassed the air vents. It would explain the lack of wounds. The lack of— if it was that concentrated, they would not have stood a chance. Not without gas masks."

It's Steve, oddly, who looks the most affected by that.

"I thought... didn't you say it was just painful?"

Loki twitches a bit at the 'just'.

But all he says is:

"I never said it was the Chitauri venom. I simply said it was _some_ form of gas. We do not even know if they are dead or alive."

Tony swallows the rest of his scotch.

"So there are maybe people still alive in there?" he demands.

Loki shrugs.

"Perhaps. Barton and Romanoff, if they put their masks on in time. Everyone if the gas is merely incapacitating rather than lethal. But that isn't the most important question. The question we should be asking is not 'are they alive' but 'why did Polt chose to use the gas _now'."_

Steve looks serious.

"Whether or not anyone's alive may not be vital to our plan but it _is_ something we need to know in terms of going for a rescue."

Loki hesitates.

"I suppose so. If—but you _would_ try to help them, of course."

"I would," Steve agrees.

And if the demigod doesn't look especially enthusiastic about that, he doesn't object either. Just allows his eyes to stray back to the twisted bodies on the floor. The twisted, uniformed bodies whose faces are set in a rictus of horror and fear and who look like they were trying to get out only the doors were locked and they couldn't _run._

One scotch, Tony decides, eying his empty tumbler, simply isn't enough for this. He pours himself a second one.

"Tony," Pepper says tightly, "I don't think drinking is the solution here."

He hesitates, cup half way to his mouth.

 _"_ Yeah? It's making _me_ feel better."

"Tony, you're planning to go on a rescue. You're planning to fly. And you're _drinking."_

And... okay. Maybe she's got a point.

He sets his glass back down, eying it regretfully.

There's another short period of quiet.

"I suppose I simply feel," Loki says at last, to the screen, "That the reason they acted now might have a lot to do with whether or not those people are likely to be dead."

"Yes," Bruce says, "They waited three months. And now—."

He doesn't finish but the expressive wave at the monitor screen says it all.

"Well, we owe it to them to see if anyone's alive in there," Steve says at last, ignoring Loki's frankly sceptical look, "If anyone is, we'll ask them."

"And if it is a trap?" Loki says coolly, "If they are _waiting_ there for you with the gas or the blue?"

The demigod's hands are twisted together in his lap and he looks tense.

And, wait. Is Loki... worried?

If he weren't so worried himself he might have gone for some smug teasing right now. As it is, Tony opts for giving the demigod's arm a reassuring pat.

"I'll get Steve a mask," he says, "And I won't take the front down of my helmet. If there's nothing we can do we'll be gone faster than you can say 'discombobulate'."

Loki doesn't look reassured, but he doesn't stiffen or flinch away from the touch either.

Tony decides to label that a tentative plus.

Steve looks meets Loki's gaze and his eyes are oddly soft.

"If it's a trap, then it's probably well baited. And if so there are people there who _need_ our help. If it's not, we find Fury's office and look for him and for survivors. Either way, we keep Jarvis on standby relaying messages and we get out of there if it no longer looks like we can do anything useful."

There's a heartbeat of silence.

Then:

"When will you leave?" Loki asks.

Tony meets Steve's eyes and holds them.

There's no real way to misread the message in them and he hates waiting anyway.

"Now," he says.

Loki nods, more jerk than anything else. Like it's not really what he wants to hear but it's also not a surprise.

Pepper tells him to "Be careful." Bruce gruffly wishes them good luck.

And then they're gone.

It's eleven o'clock when they finally arrive.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony expects, when they get there, to see dead bodies.

Agents like there'd been on the Helicarrier but in gas masks or something. Something to work with. But when he lands there with Steve, there's just the empty silence. None of the planes or cars outside seem to have been touched. The main entrance is sealed.

"Jarvis," Tony says, "Let me know if you see anyone on the cameras."

"Yes, sir."

Steve is walking towards the main entrance and typing in his access codes.

Which is, actually, a terrible idea and will send an alert to anyone with any functioning security system about exactly who it is knocking on the door. But it's too late to say so now. Tony consoles himself with the reflection that any cameras still operating out here will probably have done that anyway.

"The access codes aren't working," Steve says, looking up a second or so later.

_No shit, Sherlock._

"It'll be the lockdown," Tony says, stepping up to join the him and eying the door for a moment.

"Can you do an override?" Steve asks.

He could, probably. But on the other hand...

Pressing a button he activates his laser.

Ten seconds, a kick and one virtually perfect circle later, there's a hole in the door worthy of Qui-Gon Jinn.

And they're in.

They're in and walking down corridors and Steve's bending over to check the bodies on the ground. Tony folds his arms and watches him. Because he would move on to Fury's office but then if any creepy gas came and Steve got got... Nope. He's watched enough thrillers to know that separating when there's only two of you is _always_ a bad idea.

"They alive?" he asks.

Steve rises.

"Yes."

OoOoOoOoO

Loki sits curled up on the couch, earpiece connected to Jarvis and Tony, waiting.

It is raining again, and the dreary pelting of the water against the windows—the rush of the wind against the glass he knows is hidden away behind the curtains—does nothing to reassure him. Nor do the statements, echoing with static, which drift down the line.

 _We're in_.

_They're alive but they're barely breathing. Like they've been anesthetised or drugged. Still looking for survivors._

_Heading for Fury's office._

And it's better than not knowing, but not by much.

Because this doesn't make _sense._ There's no reason not to kill them if this takeover is hostile and if it's not then nothing makes sense. Why now? Why not _later?_ Why not wait for them to accuse Fury the way he'd said they would instead of this crude, miserable attack? There's no logic in this he can see and it makes him twist again over and over inside trying work out what he is _missing_.

_Nearly at Fury's office._

He isn't on the cameras now.

Static ripples down the line, suddenly, and Loki grips his hands together more firmly.

"Is it possible to fix that, Jarvis?" he asks.

"Fix what?" Banner asks, two couches along.

He's listening to a live feed too, his voice is only slightly more strained than normal.

Loki decides he envies him his self control.

"The static," he says shortly.

If the mortal nods, he doesn't see it. Doesn't bother to look.

"I believe the common frequencies from the SHIELD complex are being blocked," Jarvis says, "The static is one side effect of that. There is no solution that I am aware of, Mr Silvertongue," Jarvis says apologetically.

No signals.

If Romanoff and Barton were still there—

"And yourself?" Loki makes himself ask, trying to ignore the weakness in his hands that makes them paler than they should be, and the way he feels suddenly cold all over.

" _I_ do not operate on a common frequency," Jarvis says.

Banner snorts.

Reluctantly, Loki feels his lips tugging upwards into a faint smile.

_We're at Fury's office._

The smile slips from his face like wet paint, leaving in its place a mere grimace.

He can _feel_ his muscles clenching in anticipation.

There's another burst of static.

And then the line goes suddenly dead. And even as he rises and demands to know what is happening he knows it won't work. Knows that even if Jarvis is both here at the tower and there in Tony's suit if the signals are jammed there is nothing he can _do_.

Rising abruptly, he starts pacing.

He neither knows nor cares what Banner and Potts are doing. Right now the world has shrunk to waiting for Tony to call and Steve to reconnect and nothing else matters at all.

Only the restless movement grounds him now.


	32. The Darkest Hour

It's fifteen minutes after the signal fails that the thought occurs to Loki.

 _His_ _collar can be dented._

He is pacing numbly. Has been doing so for fifteen minutes and he knows now that there are twenty steps between the window and the bench along his path. He has counted them. Counted the space between each cloying, _frustrating_ turn he must make because there isn't room and he needs to keep moving while he thinks of all the ways he needs to help and can't.

_Useless._

All he is is _useless_.

His lips twist into a vicious scowl as he forces the whispers away. They are not something he can afford to dwell on right now. They are not important. Right now, the important task is finding something—anything—to _do_.

 _His_ _collar can be dented._

It can be dented, because he is tracing the choking, twisted iron with one finger and he can _feel_ the dent above his throat. Can feel the little hollow from Barton's arrow, shallow but there.

If it can be damaged, it can be damaged by other things.

Like Tony's laser.

And he'd known that, true, because he'd known at the time its flawless smoothness had been marred. But he'd never considered deliberately damaging it in earnest. Never considered actually subjecting himself to that amount of—

But does he really have a choice?

 _Yes_ , his mind whispers.

There is always a choice.

Only in this case it is helpless ignorance at best and Steve's— and _all_ their safety, really—at worst. Because he has the kitchen knives he uses for cutting chicken or the laser in Tony's workshop and no armour, and against that will be Polt. SHIELD.

With his magic, he could _help._

With his magic he would no longer be weak and trapped and exposed. Would no longer feel like a child locked inside a glass bowl crying— _screaming_ —for more than the _nothingness_ he has been left with while he watches the world spin about him.

And set against that there is... pain.

Worse, perhaps, than he is used to. Agony, even.

But still something that must _end._

His palms are damp, suddenly, and he doesn't know why. The plan is not so very desperate—should not make him afraid. He is _not_ afraid.

The whisper that Allfather's bindings are not so easily broken is ruthlessly suppressed.

Odin has always favoured brute force, and if the collar cannot be broken why make it _hurt_ for him to try?

He does not fully remember his weakness, last time the thing was damaged. All he has is a vague recollection of burning and falling and wanting _Thor_ , and trying to tear and tear to make it stop. But it is more than enough to make him suspect that if he does do this he will need to be held still. That he will need someone to make sure he does not sever his throat with the laser if he struggles and loses control.

Someone who is powerful enough not to care for the danger of allowing him access to his magic, and who cares enough for Tony and Steve and little enough for himself not to _stop_ if he screams and screams for an end, or cannot scream at all and—

His eyes drift over to the couch.

He needs Banner.

He wipes his hands off against his shirt, and turns his steps towards the couch. The mortal is speaking to Potts about something in a low voice but he looks up as he approaches. Loki offers the man a warm smile.

The mortal looks a bit wary and he sighs, dropping the false pleasantness.

"Banner," he says plainly, "I need your help."

The man raises his eyebrows.

"Oh?"

He has to swallow once, before he can speak. But the mortal's face is changing now, the faint suspicion melting away into one of his normal, awkward smiles. It is friendly enough for him to suspect that though he may well be refused, he will not be _mocked._ None of them, really, seem to mock each other for needing aid.

The thought is a comforting one, and he gathers himself enough to say:

"I need the collar off. Only it is—" _screaming screaming helpless_ , "It is not something I will be able to do easily without help. I require your assistance."

"You can get the collar off?" Potts says disbelievingly.

Her tone is a mixture of ' _I-don't-believe-you_ ', and ' _and-you-haven't-already_?'. He spares her an impatient glance.

"Cut, Pepper. I would _cut_ the collar off. Tony's laser can sever steel. My collar was damaged by Barton's arrows. It is—it might get _through_ it."

 _"Might?"_ she echoes.

Her voice is rising dangerously.

"Wait, wasn't that the one you said felt like crucio?" Banner says, frowning.

Loki tears his gaze away from Potts to look back at him.

"Yes. Hence the reason I require aid. I am—not myself, when it is damaged. I need someone to do the cutting while I am held still. To ensure I _am_ held still and cannot break free. I would not lose my head, you see, should I twist about and should the laser prove capable of severing it."

The man looks at him oddly.

"You'd trust me that much?"

_No._

The thought is instinctive, but... he does not mistrust Banner either. And it is him or no one.

He contents himself with a curt:

"If I were not prepared to, I would not have asked."

Banner opens his mouth.

Loki tenses.

And then Potts is cutting in sharply.

"No. You don't have to— We don't _need_ you to do that for us, Loki."

He frowns, because can she not _see_ that doing something is better than nothing? That his magic bound is akin to walking about blindfolded or with waxed ears and this holds the promise of an _end_.

He turns towards her, holding her gaze with his own.

Forcing the sincerity into his eyes.

"Surely you can see that I must do _something._ If I saw a better alternative, do you not think I would take it? As it is, it will take us hours to get to SHIELD and even if we did, what then? I have no access codes. No weapons save the kitchen knives. Banner's Hulk is as vulnerable to their serum as a Jotun is to Muspelheim's flames and even if he were not his first response to _me_ would likely be to smash me into the ground. And so we can but sit here, useless, and while we do Steve and Tony could be—"

"Fine," Potts cuts in, "Tony and Steve could be _fine_."

"We do not _know_ that."

"I know. But Tony has the suit, Loki. And even if Jarvis isn't able to tell us he is okay, I trust him. They have both been on missions before. They—none of us _like_ you being hurt and letting you do that to yourself isn't what any of us think needs to happen unless we know something actually has gone wrong and there isn't a better alternative."

"By which time I could be too _late."_

He can read the paleness of her face. The unsteady note in her voice.

She is... worried.

"Loki, we all of us count _you_ getting hurt as something going wrong too."

She _is_ worried. Only, she is worried about _him_ , too.

Half of him, reluctantly, insists on being touched. The other half wonders if perhaps Baldur's sheltered, _safe_ existence—the love showed over him for centuries by Frigga and the way he _never_ got sent into battle or forced to take risks for the good of Asgard—wasn't as much to be envied as he'd always thought. Wonders if Baldur ever felt as frustrated by everything as he does now.

But that is foolish of course.

Baldur was never frustrated by anything.

"She's got a point," Banner says apologetically from the side, and Loki rounds on him unpleasantly.

"Oh _really_?"

To his credit, the mortal holds his gaze squarely.

"I mean, I wouldn't do it to Tony. Or—I mean, it's admirable you're prepared to take it, but I'm with Pepper that we should wait until we know something has gone wrong. I mean, I didn't see the footage but Tony mentioned it took you half an hour to recover from practically no damage to it at all. So by that logic... I mean, all we know is the signal's down. I'm not prepared to put you through hell when we mightn't be able to help them anyway. When Tony and Steve mightn't even need help at all."

A pause, then:

"And especially not when you only said it _might_ work."

_Do not strike Banner. Do not strike Banner. Do not strike Banner._

Only, why can't he _see_ that Tony and Steve are more important? Why can't either of them see that he doesn't _matter_ when compared to their safety? That he can deal with being hurt because he always has and he _needs_ their help because he cannot do this on his own.

Why don't they _listen?_

He can feel his temper rising and almost he leaves. But he doesn't. Doesn't because beneath the anger—beneath the fear—he knows they are just as concerned as he. It is just that they care about him too and he isn't used to it.

Isn't used to people _minding_ when he gets hurt so long as he does not actually die.

It would, he thinks, be touching if it were not stopping him now.

"I would have done this anyway, eventually," he tries, "All this will change is that it will be you instead of Tony holding me down. I don't—it is for me, as much as for them. I would have my magic back, after all. Would no longer be helpless. I am not wholly altruistic."

Banner meets his eyes then.

And Loki knows his own are desperate. Desperate with a mixture of fear and anger and the raw need he cannot seem to quench. The one that makes him look small and young and vulnerable and that usually he hates, but that right now he needs because Banner is softening.

The steely determination in his eyes is wavering, and in it's place is something close to understanding.

He doesn't care why it's there.

Hope is clawing its way upward, through his heart and his chest and onto his face and it's so suddenly sharp it almost _hurts_.

"All I need you to do is restrain me and cut the metal, Banner."

Potts rises suddenly.

Loki doesn't look away from Banner.

"I am getting a cup of tea. Do either of you-?" she says.

"No," Loki says, at the same time as Banner says, "No thank you."

She nods.

And then she's in the kitchen, heels clicking on the hard floor, switching on the kettle and standing in front of it staring. As though she can make it boil faster through pure force of will.

He can see her, to the side.

Can see the white tension in her face.

And almost, he wants to say he won't have his collar cut after all.

Almost he wants to tell her he will stop asking Banner and wait and do nothing. It is a foolish desire. He blames the useless, misplaced sentiment on the memory of hot chocolate and stinging antiseptic. He knows she worries. Just hadn't thought it would _last_ or that her concern for him could compete with her worry for Tony.

But he will not stop.

He has been helpless too long and this offers the promise of an _end_.

The kettle is steaming now.

And then, slowly, Banner is bringing his head down in a nod.

"Alright, Loki. If it's really what you want... I'll do it."

_I'll do it._

_I'll do it_

He is conscious of a relief so huge he feels light headed. As though he could laugh and laugh and not _stop_ and maybe smile for no reason at all aside from there being something he can _do_ besides worry and think and _nothing._

"Banner?" he says, " _Thank you."_

OoOoOoOoO

Tony swears when the signal cuts out.

He swears fluently and comprehensively in English, Russian and French because, yes, he'd been expecting it to happen from the moment Jarvis told him the standard frequencies were being interfered with but it's still exactly what he doesn't need right now.

Not when he knows Pepper and Loki are listening to a live feed of static now.

Not when Loki has a tendency, he's noticed, to do extreme things ranging from _stupidly_ brave to incredibly rash when he's stressed or worried or just trying to help and—

He decides to put that thought away until he feels more like dealing with it.

Which isn't now.

They're on floor negative seventeen and the lighting is shoddy and the ventilation is worse. There are bodies littered in the corridors, all efficient and well dressed in suits or aqua spandex and they've all got the same dreamy expression on their faces. The haze hangs around everywhere, wisping like thin smoke, and he doesn't even want to _think_ about what his filtering system's going to look like when they're through with this.

SHIELD, he decides, stepping over yet another prone form, _needs_ to do decent OH and S.

"What do you think happened?" Steve asks, to his side.

The supersoldier is looking around at the prone bodies, and Tony'd read him only his face is hidden by the mask.

"The haze?" he says.

And yes, it's flippant, but it's there isn't it?

Steve sends him a look he suspects is disapproval.

"I more meant I wondered why none of them could get out. Though I suppose the lockdown..."

There's a closed doorway, metallic and cold grey, to the side on the corridor they're walking down, and Tony lasers it smoothly.

"You'd think they'd have _something_ capable of breaking down one of these between them though," Tony says, tapping the hole with metal-clad fingers, "Doesn't say much for their qualifications."

Steve climbs through.

"That's what I mean. How can all SHIELD..." he trails off, kneeling down next to a body and feeling the neck.

"I guess it must have happened real fast," he finishes.

Tony, privately, thinks there's fast and there's so fast not one Agent in SHIELD can act. And then there's Tasha and Clint not being here... Nope. He'd bet quite a few thousands there's something a lot more going on than just the lockdown stopping people from acting.

After all, _someone's_ around blocking the communications channel.

Still. A thought to analyse after they've found Fury, maybe.

He steps through the hole after Steve.

The new room they're in has desks, computers and a coffee maker. And the prone bodies. An office, maybe. There's a cup of coffee splattered over the ground, and a Styrofoam cup. There's an overturned chair and a woman in tight blue spandex and a skirt that looks like she either fell off her chair or tried hiding under the desk when the door wouldn't open. Everyone has the same basic expressions—they're either horrified, or they're dreamy, peaceful and faintly surprised.

It's... creepy.

He gets sick of checking the bodies after agent number 7 and makes his way towards the computers. They're compact, flat and smoking slightly, and the air around both them and what look to be sparking wires is thick with ozone. He doesn't really need to check to know the computers are all fried. But he does and they are.

Something clatters to the side and Tony jerks about, both repulsors raised.

"What is it Tony?" Steve says, standing up quickly from the body of a middle-aged man in a pinstripe.

_Beats me._

He's in the suit though, so he takes a step or two closer to the corner.

"Jarvis, a little light here."

The torch beam, when it flares out from his shoulder, shows, juddering away in its shadowy corner—

"An air conditioner. Heater. Whatever. Just started going," he says disgustedly.

"That's a coincidence," Steve says flatly.

Tony eyes him a moment.

"Tell me that was sarcasm."

The supersoldier shoots him a look which is probably meant to convey a lot more than it actually does, and he should probably have reconsidered the whole mask design thing because the opaque plastic is _really_ in the way.

"It was."

Tony sends him a quick grin in return before remembering that his faceplate, too, is up.

"That was a grin, in case you're wondering."

"... And that was an eye-roll. But thanks."

Tony snorts.

Steve doesn't. Just continues watching the thing he suspects _might_ be a heater thoughtfully.

"So, who do you reckon turned it on? And from where?" Tony says.

Steve shrugs.

"I'm not— _look_."

And there's something sharp and surprised in his tone that says 'get back' and 'danger' that Tony responds to instinctively before his brain can remind his legs that, hello, suit. _Nothing's_ going to be touching him in a hurry.

"What?" he demands.

"The haze. It's coming from it."

Tony follows his gaze down to the machine and sure enough there's a discoloured sort of something coming out the iron lattice that constitutes the front. Barely noticeable, true, and not in large quantities. But there.

"It's just a trickle," Steve breathes, "Do you think it was always like that? Or do you think they've just used it up?"

Tony takes a second step back, then another until he has rejoined Steve.

"Not sure. Whichever it is, I say we move on fast. Sooner we get out of here—the sooner we find someone who knows enough about anything that happened or that matters to get out of here _with—the_ sooner we can ask them and find out."

Steve nods.

And then they're walking on and on towards Fury's office and Tony's trying to squash the little part of him that's hoping that Fury is somehow _there._ That kind of enjoyed the old black and white 'we know who the bad guys are now deal with them' days that had existed pre-this and wants to know what the _hell_ has happened here.

What the hell has _been_ happening for the last three months.

They neither of them say much as they walk there. Just... keep moving and try not to think about anything too hard.

Try to stay focused. Calm.

Or he does, anyway.

Twenty minutes, three side rooms and two corridors later, they're there. And Tony gets his first look official, in-person look-in at Fury's office.

It's. Well. Very _Fury_.

And that's about all that can be said for it.

The room's a large one; bare, plain and neat. When he gets closer to the other end he can see there's a little portrait, on the desk, of Fury and some kid, and a gun or three near the north wall. A chair is set to the side of the desk, high-backed and all dark leather and hard, uncomfortable angles.

Its faces the door.

The room's dark, but not that dark. There's no haze floating around except the stuff wisping through the open doorway.

Fury's not here.

And he wants to punch Polt on the jaw right now because this isn't _supposed_ to happen to SHIELD. It's just wrong. SHIELD does this to other people. Steals their stuff in the name of national security and walks right over them like they're the nation's doormat. They don't get reduced like this because if they do why are they in charge of protecting anything?

 _"I'm detecting some form of high-energy-radiation devices about the room, sir. They seem to be scattered quite thickly,"_ Jarvis says.

Tony stiffens, squinting around and upwards.

Not even with the torch.

"Uh, Steve?"

Steve pauses, a couple of paces ahead of him.

"What is it?"

"I think there's something wrong with this room. Like, maybe we should get out since Fury's not hear wrong."

Steve hesitates.

"You sure? I don't—"

" _Signal intensifying on the roof, Sir."_

And then three things happen at once.

Steve leaps to the side, dodging four bolts of pure red which fly straight down from the roof and leave smoking holes in the floor two inches away from where his _head_ had been, Tony blasts a repulsor blast straight upwards where it came from which does nothing but spatter the room with bits of concrete and suddenly the ceiling seems to come alive and they're trapped in a large cage of pure energy with red bars forming straight, clear lines from the floor to the ceiling.

"What—"

"Yeah," Tony agrees, offering Steve a hand up.

Because theses are _lasers._

The floor is dotted with smoking holes now, but they're not spreading. Not resulting in a section of sliced floor that can fall downwards to the room below them. The bars of light aren't close enough together for that or the floor's too thick. He doesn't know which.

He kicks a piece of concrete out through the red beams.

It's severed neatly in two.

And why does Fury's office even _have_ this?

And then a new voice is sounding behind them, deep, pleasant and ever so slightly smug.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't two more of 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes'."

Tony jerks around two seconds slower than Steve.

And then freezes.

Because the person who's there _shouldn't_ be.

He should be being arrested by Fury or in his own little estate oblivious or somewhere way away from them and anything that matters.

"What the hell?" he breathes.

It's _Polt._

OoOoOoOoO

Loki isn't shaking when he lies down on the metal slab.

He _isn't_. He is calm as the collar about his neck is clamped firmly by the metal cuffs. As his arms and legs are strapped down first with leather and soft cloth then, over them, the metallic bindings.

"To reduce chafing," Banner had said.

He doesn't give a _damn_ about chafing and he says so.

Banner just gives him a look and does it anyway.

He is calm as Banner tells him to test them and he strains and shifts and then there are more and he can't _move_. He is calm about everything and if his heart doesn't know that—insists on beating fast and faster— and he has to remind himself more than once that it is important to _breathe_ , the mortal is kind enough not to comment.

He is fine.

Only it is hard not to worry.

He is _used_ to worrying, and if he has miscalculated—if pain isn't the only deterrent—this could be a very painful failure indeed.

His hands are clenched and there's something running. A coolant, he thinks, for the laser or something else. It drips and drips and the sound would not usually bother him. Only he cannot move and it is all too easy to remember being bound, venom falling into his eyes and face until all he could do was scream and sob and say that _he hadn't meant to kill Baldur_. Hadn't _meant_ to.

Hurt him, yes.

But not that. He'd never been _stupid_ enough to mean for that.

He can still remember his own weak, miserable gratitude when the snake had been crushed by Thor. When his not-brother had torn the chains off and the pain had _stopped_ and he was being told they'd forgiven him because they _knew_ it was an accident and no one had _known_ that he was being left to such torments. That no one had known Vanaheim's Jotun Queen, Skadi, would dare place the snake above him as he lay there, bound and alone, in his solitary confinement.

He had been foolish enough to believe they cared, then. But that had been before Everything.

That time is long past now.

Now he has Banner's quiet competence and Jarvis to comfort him.

"Good to go?"

"I... yes," he says, because this could go very wrong, very fast.

But he _needs_ to do this. He needs his magic back.

"Because we don't have to do this, Loki, if you're not ready. I mean I wouldn't-,"

If he'd been able to move, he'd have shot Banner an irritated look.

As it is, he contents himself with a strained:

"I will be fine. Or," he amends, "I will hurt, but it will not be permanent."

He hopes.

The mortal is silent, still, so he adds:

"Though it might be a little like shaking up a bottle of soda. Unbinding magic can be a... temperamental process. The workshop may be damaged, a little."

There's a slight pause.

"Tony's workshop is _designed_ for mini-disasters. I'm just worried you're not," Banner says bluntly, and he's surprised to find a trickle of warmth inside.

He ignores it.

"Your concern is touching, truly Banner. Now _start_."

The doctor mutters something about "safety" and "qualifications" but then he is clamping the laser to a stand because the collar cannot move and it will be steadier than his hands and asking Jarvis if everything is in order, and Loki's trying not to feel anything but calm as the laser starts humming. As he hears Banner's footsteps getting closer and—

And he realises that Banner is in full view and means to stay that way. And suddenly he decides he _likes_ the mortal.

"I'm about to tell Jarvis to start."

The words are calm. A warning delivered with the air of a practiced healer. And if he cannot stop himself from tensing in anticipation, he can at least force himself not to flinch when Banner takes a half step away to roll his desk chair up to the bedside.

"You can start now Jarvis."

And then the laser's starting to actually _go_ and he can feel his collar start to heat.

"You're brave, I'll give you that," Banner says.

_Lies._

Bravery is not being afraid at all.

Bravery is _Thor_.

But it is a pleasant falsehood.

"Oh?" he says.

Banner nods and his collar is getting warmer, now and it shouldn't have taken this long to do so. Should have happened more quickly. He tries to force away the fear and focus on Banner's eyes and on his mouth which is moving and saying something about SHIELD and him and testing and Ross and the serum, oddly, and he's grateful for the distraction.

It's only that the collar is so hot that it's hard to focus on the words.

Hard to think.

He tries anyway, because it's knowledge and he wants to know.

The collar is burning him now, but it's not his skin. It's deeper somehow but he can deal with this. He can _so_ deal with this. He's biting his lip and there's a sharp pain, suddenly, and he can taste the copper tang of blood.

Can feel it gathering warm and wet into the back of his throat.

And then there's a work-roughened hand touching his and he squeezes and squeezes even if it's a bad idea because what if it's too much and Banner becomes the Hulk? But he can't seem to stop himself because he can't move and it gives him something to feel that isn't the agony washing through him like a thousand pinpricks of blue fire.

Someone's saying 'You'll be okay' and someone's screaming and screaming and why won't they _stop?_

He wants to shout for everything to stop.

Wants to _make_ it.

Only his throat is raw and getting rawer and there's nothing but the blue agony now and he's sorry for ever asking for this and if he could shape the words he'd _beg_ for it to stop and grovel and _plead_ and why won't Thor come and Steve and make it all go away? Why won't anyone listen and stop because he's _sorry_ and he needs this to _stop_ and he needs to tear his throat out only his hands won't _move._

He hears the shrill scream going on and on and his lungs are pressing inwards, tearing into him like they had in the voids of space and he can't breathe.

Can't do anything.

And he would _kill_ for the darkness to take him but it won't come.

Won't-

His throat burning and melting and he could douse it with blood if he could just move but they won't let him.

Why won't they _let_ him?

And then even that is gone.

And all that is left is the blue venom and the scorching flame.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony's brain's stuck.

Caught between wondering if this is actually Polt or if it's a not-Polt and who's framing who and why is the man here at _all._

Because it's Polt.

Polt who's standing there smugly, staring at them with dark, deep eyes which hold nothing reassuring at all and Tony blames those for the parallel his brain draws between him and a fat, beardless, short-haired Saruman who's been poured into a tight pinstripe and, yep, he's watched that _way_ to recently if that's the best connection he can come up with. Even Slughorn'd be more appropriate.

Then his brain catches up with the man's words.

More _of Earth's Mightiest Heroes._

And, he decides, screw Fury. Screw SHIELD. No one touches his friends.

"What the _hell_ did you do to Tasha and Clint?"

Polt raises one eyebrow.

"I? I did nothing."

"What happened to them?" Steve says.

A brief surge of irritation flickers across Polt's face.

"Nothing... yet. They attempted to betray SHIELD. They, like you, were prepared to blame me for each of Fury's misdeeds. And when they were ordered to return prisoner 67 to our custody they questioned the authority of myself and the Council. They managed to resist arrest, but they were in the facility when I put it into lockdown mode and activated the knockout gas. Their-"

"Wait," Tony cuts in, "What d'you mean, _you_ put it into lockdown mode?"

Is that the sort of thing he should even be telling superheroes?

Polt raises an eyebrow.

"I have been given minimal authority to arrange a... test, if you will, of Fury's competence. That is not your concern. As I was saying, their masks, I think, would have failed them hours ago. I have patrols searching on the lower levels. I daresay they'll turn up in an air vent somewhere."

And he's speaking calmly. Like he's discussing the weather or baseball and there's that smug tone in his voice Tony can't really see the reason for. Until, eying Steve, he does.

Because they've been here almost forty minutes now, and the masks are only supposed to last for about two hours at max and there's enough of an uncertainty there that it _could_ go in one and—

"You think we're stuck here? My best lasers take minutes to get through my alloys, let alone _his_ shield."

Polt shrugs.

"Should you leave the... cage... I have agents monitoring this room on private systems who will activate the ones on the walls. Even Captain America will be unable to block all angles at once. It is, of course, your choice if you wish to sacrifice him to escape on your own..."

Tony stiffens.

"All along the east wall..." Polt says, and his lips are quirking upwards in something approaching a smile, and Tony wants to throttle the smugness out of him even as he's trying to work that one out.

Only one wall?

Still possible.

"And the west one," the former director finishes smugly.

Well _damn_.

"What do you want with us?" Steve says.

And Polt actually manages to look _wounded_.

"Why, nothing. I am simply aware from a certain... incident... and from recent developments that you have been keeping some rather questionable company. Since you seem rather violently averse to its removal, I decided to take advantage of my position to arrange for your absence while trying to do it this time. I guessed you would come here, you see, if I did this."

For a moment, Tony's at a loss because what?

And then it clicks.

_67\. This time._

"Loki?"

Steve sucks in a sharp breath.

"Prisoner 67 is certainly one of them," Polt says, and he doesn't—can't mean—

" _Bruce_?" Steve says.

Polt inclines his head, and Tony sees red.

"Don't you fucking _touch_ him," he snarls, and screw proper language because the Tower's supposed to be safe and he'd _said_ it was safe.

"I understand your sentiment, of course. But they are both a danger to any people they coexist with. Harlem— _Manhattan_ —is irrefutable evidence of that. And in this country, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Mr Stark. That's why what we have is called a democracy."

Tony's _this_ close to just shooting Polt right now.

The only thing that stops him is east walls and west walls and Steve.

"Plutocracy, Slughorn. We live in a plutocracy and I'm a _billionaire_. That means no one touches my stuff _or_ my friends."

Steve gives an awkward cough.

Polt sends him a disapproving look. Then he shrugs.

"Perhaps. But it is no matter. The Hulk is too great a danger to be allowed to roam free, and prisoner 67 deserves SHIELD's cells or the death penalty. But I daresay I will release you both soon enough. I have no real quarrel with either of you. I simply wished to ensure you were, in fact, here, before I allowed signals to retransmit again. But not, you understand, from this level of the facility. Farewell, Mr Stark. Captain."

And then he's leaving.

He's leaving. He's leaving without monologuing or telling them the point or doing anything else that the bad guys are _supposed_ to do.

"Who told you about our plan?" Tony calls after him.

Polt pauses and looks around.

"One of the very few loyal agents the Council has left. Agent Hill," he says.

And then he's gone. He's _gone,_ and Tony feels like Steve's just punched him in the gut because _Hill?_

How can Hill be the traitor? She _helped_ them.

_But no.  
_

She helped to expose _Fury._ And it doesn't even matter if she's double-crossing them or tripple-crossing Polt because she's clearly decided Bruce and Loki are expendable and it was his idea to go through her and Loki's face is going to be his fault and this trap was never about any of them at all. They're an hour away from home and there are enemies already there and this wasn't how things were supposed to go and he needs to focus right now because now is _not_ the time for a minor meltdown.

He's _Tony Stark._ He's Iron Man.

All he needs to do is work out how to get out of this and warn Loki and Bruce without getting Steve speared.

Simple, right?

And, wait, is Steve talking?

"...listening, Heimdall, the world is in danger. If he's still interested in protecting it, now might be a really good time ask Thor to come down."


	33. Painful Reunions

He wakes to the sound of running water and the acrid stench of burnt plastic.

For a moment, he does not know where he is. Doesn't remember how he got here, head propped up against something soft and lap wet with something thick and wet and airy. Doesn't know why he isn't burning or hurting or—and there is a damp slickness coating his cheek, too. He reaches up one aching hand to feel it, and wonders vaguely if it is tears or blood.

 _Blood_.

He stiffens.

 _Screaming_.

And suddenly memory and awareness are crashing back and he tries to _make_ himself sit up because how long? How long has he been out for and how long did it take to try to cut the collar and did it even _work?_ What if it didn't or took _hours_ and he is _too late?_

There's a clumping sound to his left, and he forces his eyes open to look, only the light is too bright or his eyes are too dry because they water and he cannot see anything at all.

"From a medical point of view, I think it would probably be wisest not to stand just now. If you don't need to. At least have some water first."

It is Banner.

He blinks and then blinks again, and eventually his eyes start to clear.

The first thing he notices is the workshop. The machinery and the computers nearest to the metal slab and the laser are crumpled. There are pieces of wire and metal scraps tossed about everywhere and the stacks of boxes that used to stand neatly near Tony's desks lie sideways, spilling their contents all over the floor. There's a partly melted bottle lying sideways on the ground, spattered by the last remnants of a fire extinguisher. One of Tony's robots is holding a red canister and rocking in a way that is almost... hopeful.

The second thing he notices is that Banner is holding out a glass with one hand. The other, swollen and almost black with bruising, hangs in an awkward sling across his chest.

The third thing he notices drives everything else away.

He can _see_.

It is as though he never knew he was drowning until, gasping, he tastes air and he can breathe _._ As though he were lying bound, gagged and blind, and never _knew_ until they were taken away and he could speak and stand. All the universe is spread before him, and he can build it up or tear it apart and there is _nothing_ that can stop him from doing everything he wants and needs to.

He reaches for it, to heal himself.

To _use_ it.

And lets out a ragged scream, chest skewered as though by molten steel as something tightly coiled tears inside.

"Loki?"

This cannot be it.

Fear chokes him, and his breath is coming in shallow gasps because this _cannot be it_.

"Loki," Banner says more sharply, "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Loki ignores him.

Logic. He needs logic.

He has not, he tells himself, lost the ability to use magic. He hasn't. It works, because already his hands are less bruised. Only, it _hurts._ But perhaps this is normal. He has never had his magic bound before. He does not _know_ what happens to it when it is suppressed. But he has seen the muscles of the sick and the injured, weak and stunted with disuse, and he knows that it can take weeks—months— of hard training to recover fully.

Perhaps, it is the same.

Perhaps, in time, his own pain will go.

But he does not have months.

He doesn't even have _hours._

He struggles again to rise and this time he manages to make it to his feet. His limbs are unsteady and they shake from a mixture of soreness and strain and an odd, draining weakness he does not understand. And it wasn't _supposed_ to be like this. Having his magic back was supposed to make him like he was before. Was supposed to make him something again and _change_ him from the weak, pitiful thing he has become since everything fell apart.

His legs threaten to give way, and he steadies himself with his broken hand against the desk because he cannot afford to fall.

Not now.

Banner makes an unhappy noise.

Loki blinks at him, and discovers that the man is still holding out the water.

"You don't have to, but..." the doctor trails off.

_I want you to. I think you should._

The words hang in the air between them, unspoken.

Loki swallows drily, and hesitantly he takes the glass in his good hand. As he does so, his gaze drifts down once more to the man's chest.

And then he stiffens, eyes widening, because he had _seen_ before but he hadn't _understood_.

"Your hand—,"

He should say more, he knows. Finish the short, pathetic words with _something._ Only, he has a vague memory of holding and holding and not wanting to let go—of something snapping and of burning—and his fingers clench about his glass because he hadn't _meant_ to. He'd suspected, yes, that the workshop might suffer, but he hadn't _meant_ to break Banner or burn or crush him whatever it is that he has done. Only it doesn't matter, really, what he'd meant to do because he _has._

He feels ill.

"Don't worry about it," Banner says, following his gaze, "Took a few aspirins for it about fifteen minutes back. And, well. There was a woman in India once who— but you probably don't want to know the details. Let's just say I've had worse."

The mortal's voice is calm. Dismissive, even.

He finds himself searching Banner's face for any sign of mockery or lies. But there is nothing.

Just the slightly awkward smile and a tightness about the eyes that says 'worried' or 'in pain' and something else he cannot really place.

"Actually," the man adds, "I should be saying sorry for not getting you some decent painkillers before I started. Or at least something to bite on. That was— not good."

Loki eyes him a moment longer. But the mortal looks the same as before. As though he actually... cares.

"And you're sure you don't want to sit down again?"

"I am sure," he says.

Rest is tempting, but rest will not help anyone but himself. And when he can concentrate—when his legs stop shaking and his heart stops thudding at a rate that is starting to hurt—he needs to project himself and find out what is happening to Steve and Tony and, if he can teleport and if they need aid, _help._

"Truly, I am fine," he lies, eying the water in his hand, "Just... just thirsty."

The last bit, at least, is true.

He swallows a mouthful of the cool liquid. It soothes his throat, so he takes another.

Banner just watches him and gives a non-committal 'hmm'.

Loki finishes the rest of his drink in less than a minute.

"How are you feeling now Loki?"

He sets his glass down.

"I feel—" and he really should not have made eye contact just then because the 'fine' is shrivelling on his tongue the way it used to when Eir would look at him with that same steady, sceptical gaze that said ' _I know you are lying'_.

But happy is also a lie, and worried and it is hard to describe the mixture of fear and hope and pain that burns him.

"I feel as though I need to find Steve," he says instead, because the water is finished now. And he is not shaking so very badly anymore.

There's a moment of silence.

"Do you need a wand or a staff or anything to do that?" Banner asks, making a vague gesture.

Loki raises an eyebrow at him, and the man flushes and sends him a sheepish grin.

"That's a no then?"

"That is a no, Banner," Loki agrees, "Though I admit staffs make things easier. Or _magical_ staffs can. And—and mirrors. For teleporting. But all I require is concentration and quiet."

There's a beat of silence.

"You can call me 'Bruce' you know. If you want to."

Loki hesitates.

And then the doctor is waving a hand dismissively in a gesture that says 'nevermind'.

"It's okay. You don't have to. I just thought I'd mention it in case—but if you don't want to that's fine too. Mind if I watch you work though? Or do you prefer to do it alone? No pressure, just—I've never actually seen magic work firsthand."

Loki hesitates a moment longer.

But he likes Banner _._ And the man looks equal parts interested and fascinated and it has been years since anyone who wasn't a fellow practitioner showed that sort of interest in his art.

"You may watch," he concedes. And, after a second or so, he adds a single word.

"Bruce."

OoOoOoOoO

Tony, personally, would be willing to bet his new Roadster that no convenient demigods are about to drop down to help them.

Not even a demigod as emotionally invested as Thor.

For one thing, they're fifty odd meters underground.

For another, well. It _could_ be the physicist in him, but the idea of someone seeing and hearing everything everywhere at once seems logically impossible. Apart from the whole issue of three-sixty degree vision and zero sleeping hours that even Loki hadn't been able to explain, there's just the issue of someone hearing every noise in the universe and actually being able to distinguish _anyone's_ voice. He has trouble doing that at parties with five hundred odd people.

But mainly, it's just that, well, if Thor _can_ come why the hell hasn't he come before?

So, nope.

The lack of instant thunder and lightning is not a surprise.

What is is that a scan of the room shows that the lasers aren't mounted on any walls in range. Which is—they _need_ to be here. Because if they aren't, then he actually is trapped here because there isn't a way out. Unless the floor can be cut through to fall the way floors can be on the Invisible Hand, and he's pulling escape routes from Star Wars and he doesn't even _like_ Episode III.

 _Focus_.

 _Focus_.

"You know," Steve is saying, and something in his tone sets Tony on edge, "You could get out the door. Make a flight straight up the core of the facility—Get out of here and _warn_ them."

Tony stiffens.

Because surely Steve doesn't actually think—

_"I'm gonna go buy you some time."_

And he can hear the words like they were yesterday and he forces the memory aside because Steve isn't Yinsen and this is not happening. Not now. Not when they're this close to both nailing Polt and losing everything and he is _not_ losing Steve Rogers too.

"We're going to have to do something about that hero complex, Cap," he says, a second or so too late for nonchalance, "Looks bad on my resume when I'm the only one on The Avengers Initiative with a working self preservation instinct."

Jarvis is still scanning the walls and the roof for thickness and this cannot be it.

There has to be some solution. Some way he can still fix this.

"They need a warning, Tony. Not just Loki but Bruce and Pepper too. I don't even know if Thor can hear us, let alone get here. And if he can't—if they're caught... Tony, I don't want Loki to ever be back with Polt. And right now? They won't know what's coming before it hits because of _me."_

_Because of me._

Tony eyes him a moment.

He feels for him. He does. Because it _sucks_ to be used as leverage and this is Bruce's safety they're talking about and Loki's and maybe even New York if things are handled wrongly because he has a sudden vision of Loki on the ground, whimpering and shaking, and the blue venom's supposed to be exactly like that and what if they use it on Bruce? He likes the Hulk, but biased or not he remembers the Helicarrier too.

But the thing is... he likes Steve too.

And he's selfish enough to want _all_ of his friends alive at the end of this.

"Captain," he says, "You're giving yourself way too much credit here. All this is Polt. Maybe he's using you as a hostage and maybe if you were laser-proof we'd be out right now, but it's all him. Lying down on the wire won't win this one. Even if we don't get the message out, Jarvis'll give everyone warning. He knows when his protocols are being overridden."

Steve's shoulders tighten, and he turns his head to look at the lasers.

It's fine. Avoidance is fine. He does it himself daily.

So it's a slight shock to hear himself say, "Steve? If you could fit in my armour, would you take it if I offered and leave _me_ to be speared by the lasers to get the warning out?" in a tone that's oddly flat.

And it's a low blow, because it's _Steve._ And yes, he's aware on one level that he's killed Chitauri and HYDRA agents and all the other people he had to to save the world but there's a difference between killing enemies and admitting that there are circumstances under which you'd basically kill your friends.

The supersoldier groans.

"It's not—"

"It is. Look," Tony says, holding Steve's gaze and wondering why the hell he's even _trying_ this because he's not _remotely_ close to being good at it. "If I did leave, I would not only be dead because Loki would throw me out another window when I told him what I'd let happen to you, but all I'd get them would be, what, five minutes advanced warning? Ten? And how far would they get with the sort of surveillance SHIELD's got? Neither of us are in any position to help right now, and you doing _that_ isn't going to fix it."

Steve slumps a bit.

"I hadn't really thought of it like that. It's just. I hate not being able to _help_."

Tony lets out the air he hadn't known he was holding.

Because that sounds hopeful.

Sounds like maybe Steve isn't going to try anything suicidal any time soon.

"So do I," he says.

They sit in silence for a little while.

"So if we were to try to escape _without_ either of us dying," Steve says, eventually, "Have you got any ideas how it could be done?"

And that, Tony thinks, _that_ he can do.

OoOoOoOoO

The chair is comfortable enough, for simple projection. Loki settles himself in it, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. Allows his thoughts to drift inwards and tries to relax.

Tries to ignore Bruce, watching him.

His magic is sluggish, and once more it hurts him to draw on it.

But it is better, when he knows to expect it.

Distantly, he wonders if this _is_ just the magical equivalent of cramp or if it is something deeper. But it doesn't matter. If it is weaker than he is used to, it was strong enough— _he_ was strong enough—to destroy the workshop. It will be strong enough to make contact with Tony and Steve and they will be fine and alive and not screaming or in SHEILD's cells and—

He needs to _focus_.

Needs to focus, else he will lose himself in the vastness of Yggdrasil.

Calmly, he centres himself. Calmly, he allows himself to drift outwards. And then he is falling from himself towards SHIELD. Searching for the minds with which he is most familiar. The ones he knows best, and whose owners he has actually interacted with. A path opens, wide and clear and familiar and he throws himself down because he hurts and he knows this person and it doesn't matter if it is Steve or Tony so long as it is someone because he needs to know what has happened and what to do.

And then he is falling and falling to somewhere.

And everything stops.

Loki rises to his feet and lets his body adjust to not hurting. Lets his eyes adjust to the dull lighting.

And freezes.

Because he isn't standing in front of Steve or Tony.

Hasn't even simply failed.

No. He is inside a tiny, all-but-airless chamber with barely enough room to stand, and in which half of the available space is taken up by canisters labelled 'Oxygen'.

"What the fuck, Loki?"

The other quarter is occupied by Barton.

There's nothing to say to the man's comment, so he says nothing. Just... gathers himself and swallows the bitter disappointment.

He needs to leave.

Needs to return to himself. Face the searing agony and jump _again._

"You look like a cat I tried to drown once, and _don't_ tell Steve I said that. And how the hell did you get in here?"

Loki scowls, mission temporarily on hold.

"I look nothing like a cat."

"You think? You need a mirror then. It's all in the eyes, and quit stalling. How'd you get here? And—I am _not_ asking you if you are okay."

He blinks uncertainly.

Because that almost sounds like... concern.

"If you must know, I miscast a spell," he admits.

It is the archer's turn to frown.

"I thought you were supposed to be— _shit,_ you slipped your collar?"

"I did," he says, "Or rather, I had Bruce cut it from me."

An odd flicker of... something shadows Barton's face.

Loki decides to ignore it.

"I was _supposed_ to go to Tony or Steve."

"Lucky me then."

Loki's lips twist.

It might, he suspects, be less luck and more the fact that he'd used the Tesseract to control Barton's mind once. In hindsight, it should have been _obvious_ the straightest route to anyone here would be through the lingering remnants of that shattered connection rather than personal attachment.

Only, in Asgard blindly jumping always took him to Thor.

He does not say so.

"So why are you looking for Tony?" Barton says, raking a hand through his hair, "Isn't he with _you?"_

Loki frowns.

"No. He went with Steve here when neither you nor Romanoff called by ten. We lost contact with him and I don't know if he is alright."

Barton swears.

"What is it?" Loki says, sharply.

"Polt's here and Hill's a traitor," Barton says shortly.

He feels himself stiffening.

_"What?"_

"She's a traitor. Fucking turned on us when we told her the plan. Asked us to keep quiet while she arranged stuff, which we did. Next thing we knew, Polt was here in temporary command and she was telling me to arrest you. And Bruce. Something about finally testing a serum because if Polt put enough pressure on SHIELD and the council he could make more. I got away. Shot a few agents. Tried to get a message across, but the signals cut out and the gas started, and I ditched my phone because of the GPS."

Loki would step forward and demand to know _more_ , but things are cramped and undignified enough already without bumping into Barton too.

"They are after _us_ ," he breathes.

The attack on SHIELD.

The gas.

The blocking of the signal. Not meant to cut Steve and Tony off from help but _them_.

"But why..."

And then it clicks. Serum. Testing. Bruce.

Not them. Bruce.

They are coming to target Bruce.

And they need to do it _now_ because they have something to prove that they cannot after Polt's arrest. A variable he doesn't know, but that he does not really need too. All that matters is that Polt has a time limit and, thanks to Hill, now the mortal knows it.

"I should warn him. Them," he says.

He should and he wants to only he wants Steve _more_.

Even though every instinct tells him that if this trap is for them then Steve and Tony will be fine.

Barton eyes him a moment.

"I'm due to look for Tasha down below about now anyway. I'll keep an eye out for them when I go."

Loki eyes the oxygen canisters. Eyes the bolted trapdoor and the bow and quiver lying in reach but not strapped on. Eyes Barton's face, unhidden by his mask because there wasn't supposed to be a need for one any time soon.

He swallows.

"Barton? I—"

And he can hear voices, as if from a great distance.

_"... twelve men ... lobby... bypassing my security protocols..."_

_"Loki. Loki."_

Barton is staring at him expectantly.

There is a hand on his shoulder, and no one is touching him.

He _feels_ himself flinching.

Feels as his concentration shatters and as he collapses back into himself in a way that is too much and too _soon_ and leaves him shaking and raw.

"Loki?" Bruce is saying, "Loki, I'm sorry about this but you _need_ to wake up."

OoOoOoOoO

They've been brainstorming ideas for ten minutes now.

They've done blowing up the walls. The lasers aren't mounted there. They've done feigning injury. Neither of them buy that anyone would care. Tony's even suggested a sort of crab-like walk where Steve crouches and holds the shield on one side and he sort of bends over him on the other to stop the two walls and the roof. But they've tried inside their cell and Steve's shield just isn't big enough to do a whole him.

He's just said, "Alright. New plan. We—," when his AI cuts him off.

_'Sir, I am picking up fluctuations in the energy readings near the roof.'_

Tony frowns.

"What's up?" Steve says.

"The roof," Tony says, which explains nothing, actually. And could be taken as a really bad pun.

But he doesn't know whether fluctuations mean more lasers are going to try spearing them or if it means something's outed and they might turn off, and either way it's too sudden for him to trust it.

"What about it?"

Tony opens his mouth to reply.

Before he can though, he sees something... odd.

The grating over the air vent is shifting.

Shifting and sliding back and dropping out of the bottom of it and gesturing at the same time for absolute quiet is-

_Clint?_

For a moment, he has doubts. Clint is supposed to be unconscious in an air vent. Clint is supposed to not be able to transmit any signals, because why else hadn't he contacted _them?_ But he has the bow and he has the arrows and he's wearing the mask Tony gave him. And he's writing something, in the blind spot of the six cameras Jarvis can detect, on paper in clear capital letters.

DISABLED VISUAL SECURITY + THE LASER COOLANTS. SHOULD BE DOWN SOON.

"We need to keep talking," Steve says in a softer voice.

Behind them, Clint is kneeling down.

And how did he even know to look for them?

 _"What_ was the plan?" Steve says, more loudly.

"Er... we wait a few minutes. Lull them into a false sense of security...Then you," Tony says, eyes _not_ on the cameras, searching for inspiration, "Then you use your shield to block the laser and slide under the bars. Bolt for the entry before they can press the laser in time. And then we contact Bruce and Loki."

Steve sighs.

"That's your plan?"

Tony wonders if it's possible to look sheepish when you're encased in a suit of armour and trying not to draw attention to the fact that the intensity of the lasers is starting to fluctuate in a way that's barely a flicker but that cannot bode well for the machine.

Clint's arrows are _good._

"It was better than your plan," he retorts.

One of the lasers fails. Nothing happens.

"Thanks," Steve says drily.

They're silent for a bit.

Tony just eyes the rest of the lasers, willing them to fail too. And every second he thinks it'll be the second someone knows what they're up to, and the tension only grows with every second that no one does.

Until at last, there is a sharp hiss and a distant explosion.

All the lasers fail.

And they're free.

OoOoOoOoO

There's a hand on his shoulder.

"Loki, you need to wake up."

_Serum. Barton. Bruce._

"After us," he rasps.

The hand goes and he opens his eyes.

"Loki," Bruce says, "Jarvis says there are men breaking into the tower via the lobby. I don't know what they want—,"

"They are after us," Loki cuts him off, trying to push himself up, "I have spoken to Barton. Hill is a traitor. They have a serum and they are coming for _you_."

Bruce looks suddenly tense.

Loki ignores him.

His limbs will not work. Too weak. Too strained from the torment to which he has subjected himself. He pulls on his magic then—drags it into the worst of his bruises and his wounds—and bites back a scream as his legs and chest burn.

He cannot allow himself the luxury of feeling pain. Not now.

This time when he tries to stand his legs hold him.

"Bruce?" he says, "I cannot promise I will be able to protect you properly. In truth, I fail—have failed—almost everyone I ever tried to defend. But—,"

"Loki. It's fine. It's not your fault."

Only it isn't fine. Not really, he knows.

Because Bruce does not like killing people and he does not like losing control. And he is in the position of being forced to do both.

He makes himself nod anyway; there is little point arguing about it. Not when what he needs to be considering is how he can best defend them both in a way that ensures Bruce will not _have_ to fight.

"Jarvis," he says, "How many are there?"

"Twelve, Mr Silvertongue. Eight are headed down to your level."

He can deal with eight.

He will worry about the other four later.

"Which elevator are they using?"

There is a moment of silence.

"Both."

So there is no escape.

"Bruce," he says, calmly, "Do you trust me?"

It is a foolish question. He is the Liesmith, after all.

But Bruce is... nodding.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and he finds himself sweating suddenly without knowing why.

"Then I need you to obey me."

The elevators have 17 floors to go.

He waves a hand, curling his fingers inwards and twisting his palm upwards. The illusion of Bruce Banner curls into existence.

Bruce's eyes widen.

_Do not think about the pain, do not think about the pain._

"This," he says, "Is you. _You_ will hide inside behind the boxes near the far wall and do nothing. And I," he says, fingers resting gently on Tony's laser, "I will use 'you' as a distraction to kill the enemies who pursue us. With luck, they will be too busy chasing 'you' to realise Jarvis and I have a working laser."

_14 floors._

"Yes?" he prompts.

"Okay. If there's not a way to win without killing them. Yes. And Loki?"

Loki glances at him, eyebrows raised.

"Just... Thanks."

OoOoOoOoO

"What do you mean, 'He cut his collar off'?" Tony demands.

They're in an abandoned lobby Clint tells them is safe and has a side door that leads to outside, and apparently no one's looking for them because he hit the comm. rooms earlier and disabled most of the security system with an arrow.

The archer is twirling one now loosely.

"I mean, he was right up in front of me. And he was a wreck. His neck was covered in blood and half of him was black with bruising and he kept shaking. Oh, and he screwed up his spell. Which he can apparently do now. Said he was looking for you two. And then he sort of froze and did this _thing_ with his face and vanished."

Steve tenses.

"Was he okay?"

Clint scratches his neck.

"I'd say no. Because I saw him when I shot his collar and I heard him when he said cutting it was that shit times infinity. But he was sane and he was asking where you two were, so maybe?"

Tony eyes him a moment.

"Didn't ask him?"

"Nope," Clint says, unrepentantly.

"You told him they were after him though, right?" Steve says.

"Yeah. Told him Hill was a traitor, and they were after Bruce, anyway. And mentioned the serum."

Steve exhales.

"Thanks. I tried calling Thor. To see if he could warn him. But I don't even know if he can come, or if he wants to. So just... thanks."

"Yeah, you're welcome. Same team and all that."

There's a moment of silence.

Then Clint says, "If Bruce is the endgame, he and Loki are going to need better protection. Even if they did get the warning, they can't run for long. Not from SHIELD."

"Wait, what endgame?" Tony demands.

"The serum. I didn't get much, but I was in the air vents when they said the goal was to get enough pressure on the council to revive interest in the serum research. They're planning to use the last of whatever it is they've got, under the assumption more's coming soon. My guess? Polt got hold of whatever prototype got made before Fury shut the thing down and intends to use it. On Banner."

Steve stiffens.

"That wasn't on the records."

Clint shrugs.

"Whole parts of Polt's history weren't on the records."

Tony frowns, because if that's wrong what _else_ isn't right?

"We need to get back there," Steve says.

_Fair call._

"I reckon if I put everything into the thrusters I could cut it down to forty five. Question though Locksley: Need any help here with Polt?"

"SHIELD'll probably manage to move now we've finally made him play his hand. But he's not a Loki on the threat level. He's not even a Stane. He can't outgun us. But arresting him won't make him stop. Killing him might, depending on how much his agents like him but that's Fury's call, not mine. So, no. I'd say we had this. You could still stick around for the personal touch, mind, but SHIELD has this."

In the end, it's not even a struggle.

He's not a soldier.

He wants to get back home. Back to Pepper and Loki and Bruce and even if he's too late, he wants to get _back._

And if there's nothing he can do here...

"Okay. We're headed home. D'you want a lift to a spot to call Fury from?"

Clint hesitates.

"No. Communications should be up soon, I reckon, now security's down. But if you've got a phone not connected to satellite tracking, I'll take it."

Tony nods.

"Mine's got apps for that."

His personally designed apps.

"And it's charged."

Two minutes later, they're out of SHIELD and Clint's back in an air vent with one extra phone and Steve's gas mask.

And finally, finally, they're headed home.

OoOoOoOoO

There isn't, as it happens, a way to win without killing the agents.

Not that Loki tries especially hard.

He does say "If you are so foolish as to strike me, I will crush you all," twice for Bruce though.

The first four enter as a group. They are unprepared and overconfident.

None of them, busy as they are taunting Banner for his _"freakishness"_ and for being the " _Hulk who destroyed Harlem_ " and himself for his weakness, " _You're pretty pathetic, aren't you, for a would be conqueror? Almost as bad as when you were in your cell_ " see the laser slowly powering up behind them until it is far, far too late.

Possibly, he thinks, they were trying for banter. Possibly they were stalling for time for the other four to join them. He is not sure.

Either way, it was a mistake to mention the cell.

He has a minute before the second elevator arrives. He uses it to take four dagger's from the felled agents' bodies.

The second lot are more wary.

Or perhaps it is just the bodies on the ground that make them cautious.

They hang back out of range of the laser until one of them has blown it to pieces and he had suspected that might happen but still he hates it because it makes everything that much less certain. He backs away, keeping himself between them and his illusion. Keeping cover as much as he can behind the broken desks and the machinery he does not yet understand.

One man bends down next to the bodies.

"You sick _bastard."_

He thinks the man sounds ill.

He does not care.

Calmly, he slides one of his daggers into his good hand.

When the first agent steps around the corner, he strikes. What the weapon lacks in quality is more than compensated for by the fact that they wear no armour, and by his own strength, diminished as it is. The first agent collapses to the ground, and the second, trying to sneak up behind him, swiftly follows.

And then he screams and arches backwards because there is a dagger in his side that seems to have been not thrown but _fired_ by an agent near the wall, because there is more force- more _pain-_ behind the thrust than mortals are fairly capable of. Or perhaps the dagger is poisoned? He isn't sure. The world tilts dangerously and instinctively he lashes out with his magic to stop the man from loading another one because he _hurts._

He hurts.

And drawing on weakened magic does not make him hurt any less. But his attacker slams headfirst into the wall and does not rise, so it is not so very bad.

He staggers, and he is shaking.

 _Focus. One more_.

He must focus, because there is still one more.

Bruce needs to not Hulk and he needs to not _have_ to fight.

He hears footsteps and twists about just in time to see the last Agent loose a dart with a shining blue liquid inside at the false Bruce.

And he knows, then, what their intent was and he _hates_ them.

He smiles as the dart connects. Smiles at the look of horror on the man's face as the dart passes directly through the false Bruce's throat. At the horror as the man sees him take his last dagger and throw it at his throat too swiftly to do more than half-draw a handgun. Smiles as the dart pumps out its load of blue, shining liquid into nothing.

It counters the fact that his breath now comes to him in shallow gasps.

That each minute he maintains his spell the pain in his chest and his side grows _worse_.

And they were eight.

Weren't they?

"Is that all of them Jarvis?"

"It is all that came down here, Mr Silvertongue."

He nods, and finally, finally, he drops the illusion of false-Banner.

He doesn't realise he has stumbled until Bruce is at his elbow, steadying him.

He should push him away, he knows.

Later. _Later_ he will.

For now, he just focuses on pulling the dagger from his side and not screaming.

On wondering if it will hurt more to just leave the hole to knit on its own or to use magic to heal it.

Neither of them say anything for a few moments.

"We were lucky," Loki says at last, eying the bodies tiredly.

That they were too busy trying to distract him and shoot Bruce to fight defensively. That the first four were not skilled.

That they won.

"Yeah," Bruce says, at last, "I guess we were."

There's a moment of silence. Loki keeps his arm wrapped firmly about his injured side.

Then:

"Where are the other four?" Bruce says.

"I do not know, Doctor Banner," Jarvis replies, "But several of my upstairs monitoring systems appear to have been tampered with. Among them, floor 76. I believe that was where Ms Potts was doing her paperwork, in Room 17."

Loki gathers himself and staggers over to the elevator.

"Where are you going?"

"Pepper," he says, "We should- you might not be safe," he says, as Bruce makes to step in with him.

"Frankly, at the moment I think any spot _with_ you is safer than without."

Loki fights back a faint smile and twitches an eyebrow upwards. He is leaning most of his weight now against the sides of the elevator and he can see his hands are white beneath the grime.

The words "Even now?" hover on his tongue.

But he cannot bring himself to challenge the man's point.

Not when he does not _know_ where the last four are.

And then the doors of the elevator close and they are rising. Minutes later, lightning crashes somewhere distant and he flinches, conscious of an irrational wish that the sudden storm would stop.

But it will not.

The weather never does, for him.

Five minutes later their elevator arrives. He steps out of the elevator half a pace ahead of Bruce.

There is no _reason_ for anyone to target Pepper. She is human, after all, and not a mutant. But the men may not be reasonable. And... she is a friend, or nearly so. He wishes to be _sure_ she is not dead.

There is no noise of battle and no screaming that he can hear.

Almost he can believe the threat to be non-existent. Still.

He creeps along the corridors silently. Or as silently as he can be in his condition. There is little point in allowing anyone who might be threatening Pepper to know he is here. And if she is _not_ being threatened, they will take her down to the workshop or to somewhere safe and none of them will be vulnerable anymore.

He stiffens as he approaches Room 17.

The door has been torn from its hinges and he can hear Pepper saying something in the voice she only uses when she is upset and worried.

He quickens his steps.

A minute later, he manages to make it to the doorway.

And then he stops. Or rather, he freezes.

Because he can't seem to move and his hands are suddenly cold as ice.

"What is it?" Bruce asks, half a pace behind him.

And then he, too, stills.

In front of them is Pepper, pale and shaken. In front of them are two dead looking human agents and one decidedly less human-looking something. There are scales on him and he looks as though he was killed part way into some form of transformation.

But it is not this that fills him with the mixture of everything that leaves him numb. Shaking.

Is not _this_ that he cannot tear his gaze from.

Next to Pepper, standing before the lightning charred corpses, is a tall figure.

A figure whose crimson cape flows down from broad shoulders to booted feet and whose voice rumbles like thunder as he says "Lady Pepper, you are safe now." Whose blond, too-long hair spills down to his shoulders and whose every, golden inch screams of power and of warmth and of _strength._

He turns at Bruce's voice and instinctively, Loki feels himself shrinking back.

Too late.

Too late to run, because he has been _seen._

And he is trying to stumble backwards anyway because he has no pride, apparently, and no courage, only he is being approached faster than he can retreat.

"Brother," Thor says, now barely an arm's length away, voice throbbing.

"Brother, what has _happened_ to you?"


	34. From the Fire

There is blood on the carpet.

He traces it with his eyes, rigid and still, as he listens to ' _What has happened?'_.

As he lets the confusion _—_ the _ignorance—_ in the words wash over him that says so _clearly_ that Thor did not come here for him. Not to hurt him; not to help him. Not for him in any way at all, because apparently Thor never took the time to go to Heimdall and see there was a _need_.

A part of him, small, and buried deep inside, doesn't understand. Feels like a rug has been pulled out from underneath his feet or his horse has slipped beneath him in some mud-soaked field, because it had seemed so obvious, so _logical_ , that if Thor was here he _must_ have come for him. But he hasn't. Of course he hasn't, just like he hadn't after the void, and it isn't important because it doesn't matter. What is matters is that Pepper is _safe_ and the agents here are dead and that he holds himself together because he needs to stay strong and be strong because he is not weak and he _will not_ be weak in front of Thor.

Well. Not weaker than his spineless disgrace of a retreat has already shown him to be.

The thought is not comforting. He smoothes his face into blankness and _makes_ himself look up.

"Are you here to help your friends, Odinson?" he says coldly.

The word feels heavy on his tongue, and strange.

He doesn't care. If Thor is here to aid them then he will have to accept it. For Bruce and for Pepper, he will have to _make_ himself accept it, and this petty coldness will be all the revenge he can take.

"Well?" he prods.

"I—yes, brother, I am. But you have not told—,"

"Good," he says ruthlessly.

He doesn't _want_ to tell. Not when his not-brother bears no injuries of any form at all.

"That is good," he says again, "Because you see, I too am helping your—,"

"—Loki," Thor cuts him off, " _Tell_ me who has _done_ this to you."

There is a plea in the words, unspoken.

He ignores it.

"—friends," he finishes smoothly, "And for this reason, it is wholly unnecessary to persist in crowding me against this wall—," _stupid,_ to make that sweeping gesture behind him for emphasis. Because something tears in the stiff wetness at his side and the rest of his sentence is lost in a strangled hiss.

"Loki," Bruce says sharply, "Is he—Are you okay?"

"No," Thor answers for him, turning aside, "He is not. His hands tremble and do not stop, and he fled. From _me_. What has happened to him?"

He tries to steady himself.

Tries to stop the wretched, miserable _shaking_.

"I wouldn't mind knowing myself, actually. What _does_ the collar your dad stuck on him do when it's dented and cut?" Bruce says, tone bordering on challenging.

"I do not—did it not just bind his magic?" Thor says, blankly.

Silence. Then:

"No. It didn't. It really didn't."

Thor has the gall to look horrified, like he did not even know _this_ , and he feels his lips thinning into one bloodless line. At his side, his hands clench. There is a tightness he ignores, followed by a sudden freedom, and then something is slipping away from his hand and falling with a sloppy, crimson 'plop' to the ground. His eyes drop. His plaster. It's his plaster, and for a moment he just stares at it dully, feeling a queer pain that has no business existing at all.

And then there is movement beyond Thor's shoulder and his gaze snaps up to Pepper, approaching from the other side.

He stiffens.

_Don't fuss don't fuss I am fine I am—_

"What does he mean you're not—," she starts, concerned. And then her face goes white and something wide and dark happens to her eyes.

_Hot chocolate. Bandages._

"You're red. You are _—_ Loki you are _bleeding everywhere_."

"It is not _my_ blood," he says swiftly, curling his arm a bit more defensively about his side, "I needed to kneel in puddles of that belonging to the agents I already killed. I needed weapons to kill the other four. But it is _not_ mine." _Mostly._

Pepper's fingers are trembling.

"I am _fine._ "

"If to be 'fine' is to look as though you were trampled by a herd of Bilchsteim—," Thor explodes, re-entering the conversation.

There is a voice inside, desperate and bordering on hysteria, that whispers that at least that is better than looking like Barton's dead cat.

He crushes it.

"I fail to see how it is _your_ concern _what_ I look like."

"Look, I don't know what a—whatever-that-is is, Loki, but you're _not_ fine," Pepper says, "Your side is bleeding, it's been thirty minutes since your collar came off and you are a _giant, walking bruise_. You look like you need a chair and are going to _faint_."

"I'm not," he says weakly, "Bruce, tell her I'm not."

"He's not," Bruce says reassuringly, "Side excepted, he looked worse than this when he woke and he still managed to save my life. I'm with you that he doesn't look _good_ but he's not going to faint."

He feels warm and oddly light, and it doesn't make any sense so he ignores it and sends Pepper an, ' _I told you so_ ' look.

She looks unimpressed.

So, when he looks, does Thor.

His smile slips.

"I'm not about to expire. I have my magic back. It is enough."

It should be enough. It is for him and it should be for everyone because it is _enough._

Only Thor is looking at him like he is small and fuzzy and dying and suddenly he wants to twist his shaking fingers in the hem of his shirt—hide them, so Thor can no longer _see_ —only he knows it will pull and pulling his wound open again is what started this mess in the first place. He settles for clenching his fingers again instead and trying to just... regain control. To think. To remember Yoda and rocks and—

"Brother, it is _not_ enough."

 _Control, control you must learn control_.

"I would have more than a mere assurance that you will live. I would know what happened. What— _who_ —did this to you. You are my _brother._ "

And his imagined rocks are crumpling, broken, to the ground.

"I am as much your _brother_ , Odinson, as _Laufey_ is your father," he hisses, eyes burning, "You have not asked of me for _three months_ , so do not _dare_ tell me I matter to you now. Your care might have been real before Jotunheim, might have been real on the bifrost, but it stopped the _moment_ you learned what manner of _creature_ I truly was."

Thor's eyes flash and abruptly his hand rises, reaching for him.

His neck, he thinks, because it's almost always his neck, and he can _feel_ the shadow of the lump that always rises to choke him whenever Thor's fingers _do_ this.

He stumbles backwards, raising his own finger in warning.

"Do not even _try_ , or what strength I have left I will use to _end_ you."

Thor stops, face dark with dawning anger.

"Then do not call yourself a mere 'creature'."

He expects… he doesn't know what he expected. Not that. Not from Thor.

"And why should I not?" he demands, "What is it that makes me _different_? You never minded making monsters of the rest."

And everything about the words is wrong. He's not _supposed_ to sound desperate here. He's not supposed to have spoken those words at all because he doesn't care about Thor and there _is_ no difference and he knows it so what Thor says won't _matter_.

It won't.

Only Thor is quiet, brow furrowed, and he wants him to say _something_.

Anything at all.

The 'are you well' debate seems to have been abandoned now, because Bruce and Pepper both look at him, a matching tightness in their eyes he doesn't understand. That he doesn't want to understand. He _hates_ it. He wants them to speak. Wants anyone to speak.

But they just watch.

The silence claws at him and all of him itches. Like there's something else inside trying to get _out_ and his skin has grown too small, too tight, to hold it.

And suddenly he can't bear it.

He lets out a queer, strangled laugh.

"But there is nothing, is there? I am _exactly_ the same as they are. No less. And no more."

There's more on his tongue. Proof, to this theory. Being twice left, forgotten, in SHIELD's cells. The void. ' _Where is the tesseract_?' and Mjolnir raised to crush him mere moments after Thor had said he wanted him home and had cared enough to mourn.

He swallows it down like acrid bile.

All of it he fairly earned, and complaining about it now is like Randall whining about being left by Sulley to the spade.

"Enough of this," he bites out, "I waste our time with this pointless debate."

Pepper makes to speak and he can't let her. Not now.

"Now, our priority should not be myself but _Polt_." He doesn't look at her as he speaks. Not at her, and not at anyone. "And since we are agreed that I am fine," an unhappy noise he chooses to ignore, "and we are all on the same side, might I suggest we move to a safer floor? One with Jarvis? And then we will discuss what you, Odinson, know of Polt's plans and what we can do to _stop_ them."

"Loki," Thor starts.

 _I don't want to hear it_.

"Tell me the words you are about to speak concern the news—,"

"Loki, you are right _._ There _is_ nothing."

It's like both a blow to the stomach and stepping off the bifrost into the void.

"Quite," he manages, not quite steadily, "The workshop, I think, will be safest. If we can get down there, Jarvis can re-route the air-vents to directly outsi—,"

And this time Thor moves too swiftly to push away, and suddenly both his shoulders are being crushed beneath the solid warmth of his not-brother's hands.

Thor's eyes are deadly serious.

"And for that reason I was _wrong_ to treat them the way I did as a youth."

His heart is beating strangely—too fast. Too shallow.

He makes a scoffing noise.

"One year and three months ago. You're a thousand and forty six, Odinson. One thousand and forty five was _not_ your youth."

"My _youth_ ," Thor says firmly, "I have thought on this much, these last fifteen months. If you, a Jotun, were capable of making rational choices, and of being a true companion and friend despite the fact that you were prepared to employ deception, lies and any other tactic that you believed might allow you to win—and for the better part of one thousand and two years you have been—I have come to the conclusion that I must, however strange it seems, accept that _all_ full-blooded Jotuns, whom the keeper of the archives tells me I should, in fact, call _Jotnar_ , may not wholly be the worthless, depraved beasts I always believed them to be."

Convoluted. Inadequate. It tells him _nothing_ and all of the logic is backwards and twisted and _wrong_.

He wants to say so, but his brain has stuck and all that escapes him is:

" _You_ went to the archives _?"_

Thor sends him a look.

"I did. It seemed the logical thing to do, when father told me what you were and I had finished destroying every breakable object inside my room and consumed two casks of mead. I wished to learn more of the Jotuns, and you were—," a break, that he thinks might mean _drifting through the branches of space_ , before Thor manages, "not there to do the research for me."

There's a short silence. Then:

"Did you know, brother, that they consume solely _ice?"_

"No," he says stupidly.

 _Which books did you_ read _, Thor?_

"Nor did I," Thor says, vaguely gratified, "I have discovered a new respect for their teeth."

Their teeth.

Their _teeth._

And suddenly it is too much. Too much and not enough and he is on his knees as wave after wave of helpless, wracking laughter chokes him.

There are voices above him, and he can't hear what they say.

Doesn't care, even.

And then there's a rustling. A sudden shift.

And Thor is kneeling down beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder and he _can't stop_.

It takes far too long for him to regain control. Even when he does manage it he can't stand. His side is bleeding sluggishly again, and everything aches. And so he just… stays there, eyes shut, breathing and feeling the solid warmth of Thor. He hears the shuffling of feet. A whispered murmur, from Pepper and Bruce. The rattling of thunder again, and of a device— a heater, perhaps— starting near the wall. Lightning. More thunder.

He thinks it is a minute, perhaps two, before he manages to look up.

Thor's eyes are fond. There is a crease at his temple that says 'concern', and an anger there he does not think is directed at himself. But no pity.

No pity, and no disgust.

Something twists deep inside, and he looks away.

There are words that need to be spoken. Questions that he needs to both ask and answer.

But not now.

Now there is only a sluggish weariness, and the knowledge that he should stand.

OoOoOoOoO

They're twenty minutes into the flight, and Jarvis has exactly nothing for them.

The live feed's back up, sure, but the security footage is about as useful as a Hammer Tech missile. Scratch that. Hammer Tech's _The Ex-Wife._ Dead bodies. Dead cameras. Dead elevators. Nothing and no one he wants to see. And all Steve's brainwave to try calling someone has done is drive home how disgustingly inadequate the phone skills are of everyone in the tower but him.

And okay, maybe that's not quite fair.

Bruce's is in his jacket in the workshop, so he's half-exempt from not picking up. And Loki's is smashed, so he's off the hook.

But Pepper—Pepper, who's in a dead zone Jarvis can only tell him three agents went to ten minutes before Loki and Bruce followed them up—has no excuse whatsoever to not be answering her phone.

He says so.

"Being fair, she usually puts it on silent when she's working," is Steve's too-logical offering.

Tony lets out an unhappy noise, because _agents_.

"I'm sure she's just..." Steve trails off, sounding strained.

Possibly because he's thinking of all the same alternatives he is for why Pepper might not be picking up her phone. Possibly because he's worrying about Loki and Bruce too. Or maybe it's just that outside is freezing, wet and probably hard to breathe in, and he's got zero protection except the tights from anything.

Tony gives that a moment's thought, and decides he doesn't feel too concerned.

Steve survived seventy years as an ice block so it's not going to be lethal. Still. Cold, wet and hard to breathe probably aren't good for PTSD.

Assuming Captain America even gets that.

"When this is over, we're flying to the nearest McDonald's for burgers. Cheeseburgers," he says abruptly.

There's a noise from Steve that might be a startled laugh.

"When all this is over, Tony, I am going to have a _bath_."

"Baths are good," he says automatically.

He hasn't had one for nearly two years, no. But he _remembers_ them.

There's a slight pause.

"And then cheeseburgers?" he prods.

"And then cheeseburgers."

Silence descends, punctuated by the occasional clap of thunder and the beating of the rain.

He racks his brain for something relevant to fill it that's not a polite variant on, ' _Do you think they're all smeared on my carpets up there?',_ but there's nothing new to share. And no new thoughts are popping into his head beyond the ones he's already said.

Maybe Steve's eardrums are up for AC/DC?

He's feeling considerate, so he opens his mouth to ask. But before he can, Steve clears his throat.

"How long have we got until we get back, Tony?"

"Current estimate? Thirty five minutes."

Automatic, mindless and that _sounded_ like worry in the Supersoldier's voice—and it's intuition that lets him pick that up, _not_ projection—so he adds:

"We'll be back in time. Loki got eight of them. Four's half of eight. You said Loki beat you sparring, right?"

"… Yes," Steve allows, "But…"

He hates the pauses. The silence, where _'But he was well then and he hadn't cut his collar and he's got a damn knife in his side, or did,'_ should be. Unless—

"You don't _let_ him win, do you?"

"No, Tony. I don't."

"Right. Good. Just checking. But good."

Tony decides to take another look at the scans. Jarvis is doing the news stations now. Has been, for the last eight minutes. No news is good news and all that, and so far, no giant green abnormalities have come up, New York or anywhere. Maybe it's optimistic, but he's got just enough faith left in the reporting industry to label that a tentative plus.

Thirty three minutes away now, Jarvis estimates, which is… better than it could be. It's one _hell_ of a lot better than it could be. And—

' _Sir, you have a call,_ ' Jarvis says.

His heart does its best imitation of a starving bullfrog that's just spotted lunch.

Pepper. It's got to be Pepper and she's called him in the suit because she knows he's in the suit and—

' _The caller ID appears to belong to one Agent Barton, sir_.'

Tony eyes the ID for all of two seconds before he manages to produce:

"Jarvis? Tell me you switched ID's when I gave him my phone?"

A delicate pause.

_'I could, sir. But it would not be honest.'_

Perfect. Just peachy.

"What's the problem, Tony?" Steve says.

What _isn't_ the problem right now?

"Seriously Cap? You mean, _aside_ from me being called on the phone Legolas didn't want to use because satellite tracking? I mean, he snaffled _my_ phone. Caller ID: Tony Stark. That's what it should say. Even if he _is_ calling me."

"… Right," says Steve, who he realises, belatedly, can't see the caller ID at all.

The phone call hangs around another second or two, annoying as some sneaky, disembodied mosquito. Instinct tells him to ignore it. That, or tell the guy on the other end that, nope, he, genius extraordinaire, is not fooled by this frankly shitty attempt at impersonation.

But, on the other hand…

He thinks of Loki. Of Pepper missing. Of Bruce. Of the total _lack_ where info should be.

"I'm gonna switch you off, Steve."

"What? Why?" the captain says, startled.

"Just the speakers; you'll still be able to hear us," he says soothingly, "But let's just say you're _leagues_ too honest for what I've got planned."

Because if _Loki_ can trick people off the cuff to get answers than maybe, just maybe, if he plays his cards right _he_ can to.

OoOoOoOoO

It takes him longer than it should to stand.

The softness of the carpet does not help, and nor does the warmth of Thor's hand. But there is a chill wind blowing from somewhere behind him to counter the false comfort of the floor; an air conditioner, not the heater he had hoped it might be, whose thermostat has apparently been compromised enough for it to think the icy waste that is this hallway just now needs cooling. It isn't aimed directly at him, no. But it is close enough. Too close.

His shirt clings to him, the coldness cleaving to it like water to dry clay. And soon enough his flesh is crawling.

A minute later, he brushes off Thor's hand and rises to his feet.

"Polt will be sending more agents," he says.

"Heimdall said as much," Thor allows, also standing, "You said before that this workshop—?"

Loki nods.

He can't quite make himself meet Pepper and Bruce's gaze. Not after his little meltdown.

"Unless either of you—?" he says, to the wall between them.

"The bodies are slightly..." Bruce trails off.

Ah. That.

"What is wrong with these bodies?" Thor says.

Loki hesitates.

"Let us say that torsos tend to bleed when they are severed in two. Excessively so."

Thor's brow creases for a moment, lost. But his face turns understanding when he his gaze lands on Pepper and he nods readily enough.

"Quite," Loki says, rubbing a wrist absently.

There is prickling sensation spreading across his body, and his flesh is oddly... aware.

"To which room shall we go?" Thor asks.

"The loungeroom?" Pepper suggests.

There's an odd note in her voice. Strain, rather than the buried softness he had expected. His gaze skitters uneasily to her face and there's a crease he doesn't like about her eyes.

"Are you well?" he asks.

She nods quickly. Too quickly.

He narrows his eyes and silently forgives her for not swallowing his own lie of being fine.

"Pepper," he says gently, in the voice that never failed to weasel Thor's favourite toys out of him as a boy, "What is wrong?"

She hesitates and sends him a soft look he can't read. But it seems she finds whatever she is looking for, because a moment later she gives him a slightly shaky smile.

"It's nothing. Really. Only I feel—a little faint. I'll be fine. It's probably just the blood."

She's lying. She is hurting.

He narrows his eyes slightly and opens his mouth to challenge her. And then he freezes.

In the air is the faintest taste of... acid.

Acid. Venom. Cold. He is cold and the air conditioner has started and Jarvis is off and what if—

"How many did you kill?" he says, rounding on his not-brother.

Thor looks blank.

"When?"

"Here. The agents up here, threatening Pepper. How many?"

The blankness clears.

"I slew three, brother."

Three. And a cold sweat is breaking out across his back because he'd _seen_ there were only three there on the floor and he'd heard the air conditioner start minutes ago but he'd assumed—it was _Thor_. He'd assumed there was one more somewhere, like a fool, and never checked and never thought that maybe, just maybe, it might be important too—

"What's wrong?" Pepper says sharply.

"There were twelve agents," Bruce says, voice suddenly tight, "I think—,"

"—We need to get to the elevators," Loki finishes for him.

He moves as he speaks, and his side burns. Fleetingly, _uselessly,_ he wishes that he had healed it in the workshop before.

He brushes the thought aside.

"They are not challenging opponents, these agents of Polt," Thor says, falling in step beside him and keeping pace with easy grace, "There is no need for this concern. When more come, I will defeat them."

His fingers clench.

"And can you now combat the _air?"_ he says, not turning aside, "Those vents are spouting out poison. Can you not feel it? And we don't even know where they _are._ They have had minutes, tens of minutes, to plan this and I did not even _think_."

"It's not your fault," Pepper says swiftly.

"Yes, none of us thought of the air vents," Bruce agrees.

Touching, their kindness. But it _is._

He'd known from the moment they got up here that they'd needed to move.

"And on that note," the Bruce persists, still with that worried look about his eyes, "Are the lower floors even _safe?_ "

"Jarvis will—,"

"Jarvis was compromised on _this_ floor," Bruce counters, "He might be compromised over the whole tower."

He thinks of SHIELD—the quiet bodies, and the surprise.

"You may be right," he allows.

There's a door to the side, and abruptly he turns and opens it.

"Tell me, Odinson: Would you smash a window for me?" he says.

Hardly his best plan.

But he needs somewhere to think, and he doesn't know how rapidly the concentration of the venom is increasing. Doesn't know when it will begin to affect them. A hole leading to the outside might not add much to comfort, no, but it will at least buy him the time he needs to come up with something _better_. Assuming, of course, that no more agents come to trap them. Assuming that SHIELD has no more snipers stationed outside as skilled as Barton who will look at them and _see_.

He shivers suddenly, and switches on the light.

Couches. A small TV. A window.

No air conditioners or heaters he can see.

He switches it out. The hallway light is enough, for now.

" _That_ window, brother?" Thor says, pointing.

Loki nods.

"And... Th—Odinson," _not Thor, not Thor_ , "Do try to keep between it and Bruce."

Thor doesn't really look like he understands, but he nods.

It is enough.

The hallway light is not a bright one. It fades to non-existence when he closes the door with a quiet 'snick' behind them, once Bruce and Pepper have located the couch. For a moment, the room remains this way— black and quiet, save for the brief flashes of lightning and the muted howling of the wind and rain. And then there is a tearing noise and the sound of shattering glass, and the room grows infinitely colder, and wetter.

And louder.

"At least the storm kind of fixes the visible-from-the-outside problem," Bruce calls out over the sudden roar.

"I thank you Banner," Thor rumbles.

Loki ignores them and picks his way over to the corner.

A desk is there, he recalls, beneath the TV. He perches on it, muscles protesting, because he doesn't _need_ comfort and he knows Thor will target the couch. Will choose, as he always does, to be seated alongside his friends.

No one says anything for a little while. Then:

"My headache is going now," Pepper remarks, "But... I wish this room had blankets."

He spares a glance in her direction, useless and blind.

He could offer to warm it. Should, perhaps. He knows he can.

But his magic hurts and he is selfish enough to save it until he _needs_ it, so he is silent, staring emptily out into the thick darkness of the night.

Thor could fly them to a lower level. Jarvis would be there, unless Bruce is right about him being compromised. But then, Polt could be planning more than the venom. More than the agents. Bombs, perhaps. He has no way of knowing what is happening down below, and he doesn't know _enough_ of Polt's aims to guess. Polt has not used explosives thus far, no, but what if they just take _longer_ to set up? And even if they can be ruled out, does that make anything better? He doesn't know. Doesn't know so much about _all_ of this.

He is jerked out of his thoughts by the heavy clump-clump of boots on carpet.

Thor, it seems, moves.

"You may have my cape, Lady Pepper."

His lips twist.

How very… _Thor_.

"You're sure you don't—?" Pepper says, sounding torn.

"I do not feel the cold, no," his not-brother says, every word a smile.

And suddenly, he is restless. He wants to move. To pace.

Lightning flashes outside, and he has a glimpse of Pepper wrapping herself securely in thick crimson folds. The thunder follows, three seconds later.

He counts it.

Counts it again, as Pepper asks what the material of the thing is.

And the third time, as Thor is rising, he acts.

Standing, he bites his lip firmly and drags his magic into his side and it burns and everything burns and the thunder crashes overhead in time to drown out the strangled scream that he can't fight back. The desk is beside him. He steadies himself against it, and for a moment he must just... breathe, reality lost in a numbing fog of _hurt-pain-burn-stop._

In the darkness, no one sees.

He is standing again mere seconds later, and he doesn't try to speak. Not yet.

But he can move now. _Does_ move, pacing slowly, haltingly, in the darkness.

Thor will have information.

 _Heimdall said as much_ , he had said of the agents. However little he knows, he must know _something_.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it.

Probably, the cameras up here are compromised for everyone else as well as Jarvis. Probably this room is unwatched. It would explain why no one has attacked yet, beyond the application of the venom. But it is foolish to start a discussion here that cannot be short when he knows more agents will be coming. Foolish to talk here, and foolish to stay now he is healed if he _cannot_ talk.

Lightning flashes, and he can see Bruce's fingers fiddling restlessly with a pen.

He hesitates, then takes a step or two towards the couch.

"We cannot remain here," he says evenly.

He waits for a discussion. For disagreement. But no one challenges him.

"Where do you want to go?" Pepper asks.

" _How_ do we go," he thinks Bruce mutters.

Loki turns to the general direction of Thor, eyes narrowing contemplatively.

"Where does not really matter, so long as we do not stay here and Polt does not learn of it. But as for how... Odinson, how many of us can you fly at once?"

OoOoOoOoO

"SHIELD's Halloween party. Game seven. Two sixes and three ones. What happened?"

The person who probably isn't Clint balks for all of two seconds.

"Africa's finest fell to Tasha," he says glumly. "And you swore you'd never make me relive that, asshole. I lost _one hundred_ _dollars_ on that."

Tony smiles a wolfish grin at absolutely nothing.

"Just checking. You know, that you were _you."_

Whoops. Maybe that's a little _too_ pointed.

"Whatever. Dick move, Tony, but whatever," 'Clint' says eventually.

There's a slight pause.

He hums _Bad to the Bone_ , just because he can.

"Look, Tony," not-Clint says, after a moment of that, "I'm calling you because we've got a slight situation. At SHIELD HQ here."

"You mean beyond Polt, some missing serum and a few hundred unconscious agents?" he quips.

There's a noise that might be a strained laugh.

"Yeah. Beyond that. Made contact with Widow. Simple version? Apparently, SHIELD's decided this is the best opportunity they'll ever have to locate that serum and that Bruce and bait have more in common than the letter 'B'."

There's a moment of silence, where he's thinking _serum_ and _thirty minutes away_ and half of him's hoping this doesn't mean what he thinks it might and the rest of him wants to wrap his fingers around Polt's greasy neck and squeeze.

"Explain," he says shortly.

"What I'm saying Tony," 'Clint' says carefully, "Is exactly what you think I am. We _need_ to locate that serum. It's deadly, and in the wrong hands every mutant in the world could be at risk. More than they already are. You need to not go back to the tower. If you scare off Polt's agents, that serum'll go back underground faster than you can say 'fuck' and all this'll just start up again in a few months. SHIELD doesn't want that to happen."

Scaring off Polt's agents. Now there's a cheerful thought.

"Using Bruce now… It's the best chance we've got. The _only_ chance we've got."

"A-plus planning there. But here's the thing: Bruce, in case you missed it buddy, is a _friend_. Letting friends die because SHIELD wants me to is not how I roll."

An impatient noise.

"There are other agents stationed out there. C'mon, Fury's on it, Tony. We flush out the serum, our agents stop theirs before they can use it, and then, when there's no chance of it going underground, we move to arrest Polt. Simple."

It's a good plan. A great plan.

Except for the minor details that Bruce isn't bait, this isn't Clint, the serum won't be stopped, and all this will achieve is a) No Iron Man or Captain America arriving in time to help anyone and b) A dead Bruce, killed by the serum on a rampage which is—insert fake gasp here—exactly what Polt wants.

Clearly, though, this is _not_ the thing to say right now.

Tony racks his brain for something better.

"Or, we could take out the serum _now._ Seriously, if you've got agents out there, you've got to have something for us."

"Yeah, but there's no way to leave the Tower. Elevators are down, cameras are shot on their level," _True. True_ , "They've used the Chitauri venom on it." _Shit. Shit. Shit._ "Bruce _will_ Hulk. And we've got the anti-Hulk serum on hand for when he does. But we need to draw that serum out. And you're not exactly subtle, Tony. Soon as they know we're onto them: Underground. You need to trust us here, Tony. You can't turn up in New York. _"_

And if he thinks of this is as kind of doubling as a friendly call and a bunch of threats, then maybe, just maybe, it's true.

Maybe, if he does show up right now, shit will hit the fan in three months of downtime. Hell, maybe Polt'll sell the stuff to HYDRA like he's been selling SHIELD's weapons. Maybe he really is stuck here, twenty eight minutes away from home, while Pepper and Bruce and Loki get venom'd and _Pepper isn't answering her phone_ and damn it, why did he even take this call at all?

Calm breaths. Calm breaths. Still no Hulk-outs on the news.

"… Okay, Legolas. So where d'you want us to wait?"

"Doesn't matter," not-Clint says, "Chill wherever. Grab a burger or something."

Tony takes a deep breath, steels himself, and doesn't tell 'Clint' where he can shove his burger.

"Sure. Nearest McDonald's to New York Jarvis can find. Cheeseburgers. But Clint? You'll contact us, right, when you've stopped the serum? When we can step in?"

A shaky exhale on the other end that screams relief.

"Will do. And Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck."

 _Screw_ good luck, he thinks, as the call disconnects.

His capacity to pull a Loki in the planning department only stretches so far, and the fact that Polt's bothering to stop him at all implies there's something he can ruin by being there. And if the serum goes underground again? Well. Maybe Strange or someone can hunt it down magically before it happens again. Maybe. He can't see any immediate flaws. Frankly, he doesn't care.

He's got the info he wanted. Bruce is alive, no one's been caught, and SHIELD still hasn't moved.

For whatever reason, the venom hasn't got them yet and he _has_ to believe he can get there in time to be of use.

Advanced planning on how to deal with the serum threat just isn't in his job description.

Twenty five minutes away, Jarvis says.

He's flying straight on home.

OoOoOoOoO

The flight is not dignified.

It takes some manoeuvring to get Bruce and Pepper inside Thor's sole available arm in a way that neither crushes them nor threatens to leave them hanging by one tortured, straining appendage mid-fight. He gets a doubtful look from Pepper when he explains that he will be holding on to Thor, not Thor to him, but Thor does not question it.

Not once he grudgingly admits that he has healed his side.

"We have done this many times, my companions and I, in times of need. We held fast to each other's feet," Thor says warmly.

"Thus forming one long, unsightly chain," Loki adds, lip curling.

Bruce says something about 'Kids' and 'Peter Pan' he doesn't really understand.

It doesn't matter.

What matters now is _focusing_ and making sure his aching fingers don't let go of the slippery metal that is Thor's boot mid-flight. What matters is not emptying the undigested remnants of Pepper's pasta on the carpet and managing four seconds of complete non-detection in every spectrum Tony has taught him of while they leave. Not invisibility—not quite. But just... bending the radiation to continue about them and return to its normal path as if they had never been it its way at all.

"Where are... eded?" Thor's voice roars, thirty seconds into their flight.

He wants somewhere warm. Close. Open, at late hours, where no one will know him.

Steve's coffee shop is tempting.

Unfortunately, Steve's coffee shop is not safe. Not from Polt.

"... -ry well... Pe..."

And apparently Pepper has somewhere anyway.

The flight lasts six minutes.

It feels like six hours.

But at last they're there. He doesn't look as they enter. Just focuses again on not being _there_ for anyone watching them to see. There's solidness, beneath his feet; he stumbles forward. There's a high-pitched 'peep'. An oiled sliding of a door. Glass.

He hates the glass.

And then there's the sudden softness beneath his feet and the warmth of a heater. A sharp 'click' echoes outwards and the room is flooded by light.

The curtains are shut, which is good. Very good.

The room is warm, but he makes for the heater anyway. For the chair in front of it, dark and soft. It should be that he wants to be sure there is no poison escaping from it because he doesn't know where this is. But he just wants the heat.

There is the dull hiss of a kettle from somewhere close and a, "Does anyone else want a drink? Coffee? Hot chocolate?" from Pepper.

His eyes flick up, watching her.

But why not? Here is safe enough.

The gas is gone and Polt's agents will come or they will not come, no matter what he drinks.

"Hot chocolate," he says.

"Coffee," Bruce says, _"Lots_ of coffee."

"Thor?" Pepper says.

Thor smiles.

"Coffee would be most welcome, Lady Pepper."

She nods. Refuses Bruce's offer to help her get them. Clatters away. Manages something white and thin with her face that makes him get up, leave the room, and search for some clothing in the bedroom that isn't dripping red. He could summon some, but something inside shrinks from it and in the end he just rubs off the blood he can feel and re-emerges in a crumpled black shirt and pants that were probably once Tony's. Assuming this apartment _is_ Pepper's.

It occurs to him too late that he should have asked permission.

But Pepper's face looks better when she sees him, and Bruce promptly declares that _he_ is stealing some dry clothes too, so it is not too bad.

Five minutes later, they're all seated about the heater

"What did Heimdall tell you?" he says, directing his gaze to Thor.

His not-brother, nursing his steaming mug of coffee, leans forward.

"Heimdall? He informed me, ere I left, that you were under siege and thirty more men were coming for you in the tower. They were to arrive in thirty minutes, though that will be around ten now. All are armed with the Chitauri's poison."

Pepper inhales sharply.

"And you didn't think it was important to leave _sooner_?"

"We had time," Thor says dismissively, "I wished to know why my brother looked so poorly as he did. As I said, they are not difficult foes to defeat."

Pepper's lips thin and he decides he feels vaguely pleased.

"Thirty. Forty two agents. That's—," Bruce frowns, "Extreme, isn't it?"

Extreme? Perhaps.

He shrugs and offers:

"Polt has everything to lose if he fails here, now he has played his hand. There is no reason _not_ to send them in excess."

_Except that if you did turn into the Hulk, more would die._

He doesn't voice the thought. Nothing Polt has done so far suggests that more people dying is likely to bother him.

Bruce looks sombre and he looks away, back to Thor.

"And that was all he told you?" he prods.

Thor hesitates.

"No... He also said, there was one vial of a virulent poison made, before the work was halted. The agents of Arnold Polt stole it. None know for certain, but it is predicted that, if released, it would linger in the air or the water like dark magic, tainting all that touched it. Some has been tested, when it was first taken; it was lethal to all exposed to it. They have taken it to this city, and plan to use what they have stolen on Banner to end him."

"Tested," Pepper whispers, voice faint.

Bruce, too, looks sick.

He tries not to think too much about how the emotion stirring within _him_ is almost… hope.

"Th— Odinson," he says, "When he told you what they had done…"

"Yes, brother?"

His hands are unsteady where he is clenching them about his mug, and bloodless.

"Did Heimdall tell you where it _was_?"

A slight pause.

"… Yes," Thor allows, "But it was inside one of the metal carriages of which the people of Midgard are so fond. It was travelling through a tunnel ere I left to persuade father to send me here, but it is unlikely to have remained there. The agents of Polt intended to keep it in motion."

"Sensible of them," Loki says at last.

He should not _be_ this disappointed. The hope had only existed for a few seconds.

"Didn't happen to offer you a number plate, did he?" Bruce says.

A moment of consideration.

"He did," Thor allows, "This helps?"

Abruptly Loki rises, setting his mug aside.

"It does."

"Or it would," Bruce frowns, "If we had access to every satellite and camera the way we did—no offense Loki—when we were tracking the tesseract and him."

_True. Unfortunately._

He begins to pace restlessly.

Jarvis could access them. But the venom is with Jarvis, and they are far away.

"Could you," Thor waves a vague hand, "Use your magic to find it?"

Loki frowns. Considers.

"No," he says shortly, "Scrying is useless while it is moving."

Another silence.

"Perhaps Tony Stark could help you, brother. He is skilled with the 'science' the mortals favour here."

It is his rawest nerve, and Thor has just pinched it.

"Tony is inside SHIELD's headquarters," Loki snaps, "With Steve and out of contact and I _cannot reach them_."

Thor sends him an odd look.

"Loki, Tony Stark and Steve Rogers are fine. Barton rescued them mere minutes before I left. They planned to make for the Tower to aid you. You did not know this?"

So many thoughts tear through him then.

Anger. Relief. Fear.

Pepper has set her cup aside too.

"What are you doing?" he says as she stands up.

She sends him a _look_.

"Finding a phone. I forgot mine when we left the tower," she says, like it should be obvious.

He quirks an eyebrow at her.

"The suit has an inbuilt phone and he's _reachable._ I'm going to ring Tony."


	35. Answers

It takes Tony three seconds to decide that a call from Pepper's anonymously rented and disgustingly expensive apartment is _way_ too coincidental not to be real.

It takes Jarvis another twenty to set up the encryption.

And then they're on and it _is_ Pepper, the real Pepper, because she sounds right and she's talking over him and he's talking over her and he's pretty sure no one else can fake that or get that that exact note of relief in their voice while still managing to pull off worried scolding. Well. Not well enough to fool _him._

"... And then you just weren't _there,_ " she's saying now, and yeah.

"Blame Polt. Seriously, communications. Jammed us. It wasn't my fault."

"And I didn't know what had happened and then Jarvis stopped working and the agents came up _—_ "

He's just about to jump in and ask her why she didn't pick up because phones are awesome and she has a mobile and he's pretty sure she keeps hers charged when suddenly she's saying "I don't know what I would have done if Thor hadn't saved me" and his brain is stalling because did she just say _—_

 _"Thor?"_ he demands.

"Thor. He has his hammer and he flew us all out and he has a very warm cape."

There's more that follows, but it's just noise in his ears. He's not listening. A part of him is wondering how Pepper even _knows_ that about the cape, and a bigger part's just stuck on Thor being here, actually _here_ , and he knows he should be happy right now because Thor is awesome and everyone's safe but suddenly all he can see is Loki's face whenever Asgard or any mention of family comes up, and that _thing_ that happens to his eyes that makes him go all small and squashed and _shit._ Did Thor come for _them?_ Because Steve called?

 _"Tony,_ " Pepper says, a bit too unsteadily.

And... yeah. Focus. Focus is good.

"I'm fine, Steve's fine. We got caught in the superhero equivalent of the time-out pen. With lasers," he adds, just because. "But we're awesome. Just fifteen minutes from home and Pepper? Level with me. You. Bruce. Loki. Safety. Scale of one to ten, how good?"

"Eight. Thor's here and this is the apartment I let for when I'm tired and you've been snoring too much or I want to avoid the news."

"... I don't snore."

Silence. From everyone, the traitors.

He sulks for all of two seconds. Then:

"And how's Loki holding up? And Bruce," he adds, even though the news says nothing-too-bad-physically.

Pepper makes an unhappy noise.

"Bruce is fine. Well, better than in the tower, especially while Loki was out. He took a few aspirins—he broke his—,"

"—Yeah, we know. Jarvis said."

Pepper 'hmm's.

"And Loki?" Steve says.

Another unhappy noise.

"He's… he's _pacing_."

... Right.

There's a muffled 'what' and something else he doesn't catch.

"He also says that I should check you're the real you," Pepper adds, which is kind of reassuring.

If Loki's alert enough to be suspicious he can't be _too_ bad, right?

Right?

"C'mon, who else would I be?" he says automatically, "Who else would a call to the suit get?"

"I don't know," Pepper says.

But she doesn't add to that, so apparently she's waiting anyway.

"Fine," he grouches, because if anyone should be offering proof it's _her,_ "Tell Loki the first movie we watched together was Beauty and the Beast. He liked the beast, liked Belle and liked the songs, and after that we watched Star Wars and who shot first?" he finishes interrogatively.

Static, and a few more murmurs.

"He says you missed Monsters Incorporated, and Han."

He makes an approving noise.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you differently."

"Tony..." Pepper says.

"Yeah?"

"The reason I called you-"

"—Was to make sure I was okay. And you're okay. And—"

"—Yes, but there's more than that. Tony, what do you know about the serum?"

He frowns.

"Small, bad, ugly and close. Why?"

"Because," Pepper says, "Thor knows the number plate of the car where it is."

His first instinct is to say that there is no possible way things can be this easy. He follows it.

"I know," Pepper says, "But Loki _says_ it's reliable."

Fair enough.

"Heimdall?" Steve says.

"Heimdall," Pepper confirms.

Cameras. Network. He needs them. Has them, because they're not that hard to hack. Not when Jarvis' got that program in his system. Few minutes more to locate the car; twenty at most. Maybe longer if the car isn't anywhere with cameras but really: How far in New York City can you get without bumping into a camera?

"What's the number, Pepper?"

She rattles off something he hopes Jarvis got because he certainly didn't.

And then he's telling Jarvis to search for that, and Jarvis is saying he will and Pepper is saying something about keeping the connection open between them and wanting to be sure they're safe and Steve's saying that, yes, that sounds sensible and before Pepper gets the run down, can he speak to Loki, please? and Tony's just thinking how weird it is how things can move from total badness to borderline okay again with just one phone call.

"There's a speaker button. Just saying," he says absently.

No one listens.

And then there's a clunk as the phone changes hands, and Loki's saying:

"Steve? You wished to speak with me?"

His voice sounds like it's been used for shouting or maybe screaming for six hours and then flattened by a steamroller.

An 'are you alright?' forms in his mouth and he bites his tongue to keep it back. He's seen Loki's face whenever Pepper asks 'are you okay' when someone he's not quite comfortable with is there. No point in embarrassing Loki by fussing when he already knows the honest answer's 'no'.

There's a short silence, where he assumes Steve is thinking the same. Then:

"Yes, I did," Steve says, "Loki, we got a call from someone pretending to be Clint a few minutes ago."

 _"Barton?_ What did they want?" Loki demands.

It's not good, but it's better. There's at least some animation mixed with the rawness now, even if it is worry.

"For us to keep out of New York while they found you. And Bruce."

"They _told_ you this?"

"Not in so many words. Tony managed to trick them. But that was the gist of it: We show up, this serum goes straight back into hiding."

Tony frowns. He's not sure he likes where he thinks this might be going.

"That was what I wanted your advice on. Yours and Tony's. I mean, now there's a chance we can find it, do you think we should wait outside New York while Jarvis scans, or wait with you to search? What's more likely: That we'll lose it because they run, or that they'll find you where you are first and take a shot at Bruce?"

"Oh," Loki says, and then, "I see."

There's a short silence.

He _really_ doesn't like where this is going.

"Can they track this call?"

"Nope," Tony says, "Least, not on our end. On yours they could, but that apartment's just one out of a few million people are calling from. No reason they would."

The silence is longer this time.

He can almost feel Loki pacing.

"SHIELD'll probably find it. Being fair Robbie, this stuff is what they're trained for."

No response.

Not good. He doesn't _want_ to be stuck at a greasy burger joint with a phone-feed as his only indicator for what's happening with everyone else back home.

"You'll be stuck with Thor if we don't come."

It's a low blow. He's kind of surprised when all it gets is a stiff, "I will be stuck with _him_ anyway".

"Not if he flies Steve on mission find-the-serum while I stay there guarding you lot," Tony counters.

Loki makes a sceptical noise.

"While... what? While the car moved on from wherever you located it and they flew there streets too late?

"They're called mobiles, Robbie. And earpieces. Steve has them."

Silence, where he hopes Loki's considering that.

If he says no, he is going to kill Steve.

Scratch that, he's going to—

"They would see you though, entering the city. The storm is bad, but not that bad. And if they shift the serum to a new car, it is lost. Unless—"

Loki's voice gets a little louder.

"Odinson?"

Ouch for Thor. Though the jury's out on whether the guy deserves it.

There's a distant rumble. Then:

"If we lose this serum, how long will it take you to return to Asgard and ask Heimdall again where it is?"

Another rumble. A long silence.

"Robbie?"

No response.

And then Loki's saying something tightly about needing to concentrate and yes, Pepper, he's fine and he'll just go to the bedroom since it's nice and close, and a moment later there's the sound of a door closing just a fraction _too_ clearly.

"You will do what you must to not arouse their suspicions," Loki says.

"Loki?" Steve says.

He's ignored too.

"You will remain wherever you are supposed to, and you will say whatever they expect you to. And when you locate the serum, you will strike."

"Loki, what _was_ that?"

"You will do so. _Yes?"_

Tony scowls at nothing for all of two seconds.

"Yes. Fine. Nearest McDonald's for hamburgers. Seriously Robbie, what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Thor. The door," Tony says impatiently.

There's a choked gurgle of something that's definitely not a laugh.

"Oh. _That."_

"Yeah, that."

"Nothing. It was nothing," Loki says, and then, like the words are being torn from him, "Only he _looks_ at me like he never—and then he asks if I am well like he _cares._ As I said, it is not important. What _is_ is that he says he cannot go home until Odin opens a portal for him to travel through, so there will be no more chances from Heimdall. He will, it seems, be remaining in this realm some time."

"Loki..." Steve starts.

"Don't," Loki says, "I— _Don't._ Not now. I am fine, Steve."

 _Like hell you are,_ Tony thinks.

But he doesn't object when Steve turns the conversation to what happened in SHIELD and Polt and what happened to them at the tower. Not when he's speaking the same way he always does, steady and even like nothing's wrong, and Loki's slowly, slowly clawing his way back up from unsteady little oh's and yes's to solid sentences again that don't sound like they're cracking part way through.

McDonald's approaches way too soon.

"Pepper... Pepper will be waiting to know what has happened," Loki says eventually, as they land and start walking towards the doorway, "She will want the phone back."

He sounds better.

Well. Better than he had _before_ , anyway.

"Doesn't mean you have to give it to her, necessarily. And don't tell her I said that."

There's a snort from the other end of the line.

"I rather think it does. And I will not... _if_ ," Loki's tone turns teasing, "My new phone pleases me."

"That, Robbie, is _not_ very nice," Tony says severely.

"I know," Loki says, pleased.

Tony snorts.

"Tell you what, Robbie. Next one'll be a Stark-Phone."

Loki doesn't respond, which he takes to mean suitably awed. And then he and Steve are heading into the restaurant. It's a smallish one, all cheap vinyl and dirty paint and there are a few squishy booth chairs among the swarms of hard plastic ones. A few people look around, dull-eyed with weariness or alcohol, as they enter. And then the low babbling of voices continues around them.

"Pick a seat, Cap," Tony says.

Steve gives him a nod and heads over to two tacky chairs near the window.

And him? He heads up to the counter, flips his faceplate back and flashes the acne-faced kid lucky enough to be doing this night-shift a dazzling grin.

He's disappointed, to be honest. There's no reaction. The kid keeps chewing a glob of bubble-gum disinterestedly, says 'Nice cosplay, I saw one like that on YouTube once', doesn't listen when Tony explains that this one's the real deal, and accepts payment without blinking. Then he goes back to yawning and Tony huffs and goes over to his table to wait for their meal.

"They used to faint. Or ask for autographs," he whines as he creaks into the seat.

Steve's lips tug upwards into a grin.

It doesn't last.

"How's the search?"

And his own mood's deflating now too.

"Nothing. Yet. In the system and searching though. We're good."

Assuming, of course, that no one catches on to what they're doing.

He doesn't say so. He's pretty sure Steve already knows.

And then suddenly Pepper's saying 'Tony' again and right. Apparently this swap is the reason why Loki hasn't been asking anything for the last few minutes. Which is fine, because he's still adjusting his brain to everyone-is-fine mode, and any extra talking with _any_ of them is good but Pepper is Pepper and she doesn't have powers. And this time, as he flicks off the phone connection with Steve and flashes him a thumbs up for ' _it's fine_ ', this time, he knows exactly what Pepper wants to hear, and he's got all the time in the world while Jarvis scans to tell her.

He braces himself and prepares to give her a blow-by-blow account of everything that's happened in the last two hours, from the gas to Fury's desk to the unending, damn storm.

 _"Tell me if you get anything_ ," Steve mouths.

He nods. Starts talking to Pepper. Lets Jarvis scan.

Ten minutes. Twenty minutes, tops, until they find the car.

And then Polt is going down and this time nothing, _nothing,_ is going to stand in their way.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki doesn't join Thor and Bruce on the couch when he swaps with Pepper.

He should, he knows. Doubtless Thor at least would like him to, and there is nothing he needs to plan now that Steve and Tony are already searching. Nothing, really, that he needs to _do._ And yet the restlessness plagues him. Drags against his skin like a physical irritant and all he can do is pace. _Move._ Move and move and not stop until—

He remembers being taken to his cell. Remembers the coldness and trying to steady himself against the wall once Thor's hand was gone without _looking_ like he was trying to steady himself because his right leg was shattered and he didn't want to fall. Remembers the door creaking and twisting his face into a sneer as he looked up to taunt Thor for trying still, only to find that, no, Thor wasn't trying because no one was with him and Thor was gone. Remembers the mirrors and the—

His fingers clench, and ruthlessly he straightens them.

It does not matter.

It doesn't _matter_ why Thor hated him enough to think he deserved that then and yet looks at him now like he cares.

Probably, Thor has just satisfied himself that he has been punished and humiliated _enough_ , and now that he has been all is forgiven. That was how it had been after Sif's hair, he remembers. After Svadilfari and Baldur. After everything.

_Only he helped, then, when he could._

_When he knew._

There is a lump somewhere in his throat and tries to ignore it. Tries to switch his mind _off_.

He was fine when Thor wasn't here. Why should his presence make such a difference?

The bookshelf looms before him, cluttered with sheafs of paperwork and magazines with names like 'Vogue' and 'Rolling Stone' and 'Women's Day'. There's no one there he recognises. Nothing familiar.

He turns. Continues pacing.

He knows he is being unreasonable.

Bruce and Pepper need Thor. It should be enough _._

Mutual need was enough for Barton to tolerate _him_ and it should be _enough._

If he cannot be happy he is here, he should at least be able to pretend that he is. He has worked with Laufey before. With Angrboda. With—worse. So much worse. And his not-brother is better. Thor is no monster and he does not make hurting him a prerequisite for the alliance, so of course he is better than the dregs of the Nine Realms and the Rulers of the Void. And the pretence will not last forever.

Thor will not be here long. He has come only because he is needed, and when Polt is dead he will go. Not home, not yet, but to Jane, perhaps, or—

Inspiration fails.

But he will _go,_ and everything will return to being exactly the way it was before. The way it should be. He just needs to... deal with now, until then, and pretend he doesn't care like he shouldn't, and he is _good_ at pretending. Breathing hurts. His magic is in tatters. Spots dance before him like clouds of whitefly whenever he stares too long at the one spot or turns too quickly, and he aches in places he never knew _could_ ache.

If he cannot even lie, what is left?

 _What is_ _left?_

His face twists, and he stares at the wall so no one will _see_.

A moment he allows himself.

Just one.

And then he banishes everything from his face and wrenches the blankness into a mask of practiced amusement. A touch of resentment near his mouth. A hint of cynical scorn about his eyes. Fondness should be there too, beneath it all, but it is all he can do to banish the anger and the hurt. He contents himself with a slightly crooked smile.

He waits until he is sure it feels right. And then he makes his way over to the couch to join them.

"Bruce," he says.

The mortal looks at him, then looks at him harder, and then something unhappy happens to his face that makes him wonder, for a moment, if his expression is wrong. But it can't be. He has practiced it enough in front of the mirrors in Asgard back when he could stand them to know.

His eyes slide on and his smile tightens.

"Brother," Thor says, grinning at him.

"Odinson," he says, and wonders if it is just wishful thinking that Thor's smile dims.

His chair is empty still, before the heater. He eyes it a moment, torn.

Thor has picked the closest spot to it, yes, and there are other seats. But on the other hand… he is cold. And he is not a coward. He moves forward and reseats himself, leaning into the warmth.

"How is your hand, Bruce?" he asks lightly.

"Good. But then, it'll be a few hours, I think, before the aspirin wears off."

He nods. Drums his fingers on the armrest until he notices, and then stops.

"Brother..." Thor starts.

Loki glances over at him and raises an eyebrow.

"You look… ill."

"You flatter me. Truly. Persist, and my ego will grow to rival Tony's."

Thor doesn't smile.

"I do not jest, brother. You do not look well."

He feels his eyes narrowing, because Thor knows exactly why he doesn't look well.

Thor, but not Bruce. He offers his not-brother a cold smile.

"But then, that is not surprising given that but twenty minutes ago I had a dagger buried in my side. Hardly conducive to my general well-being," he says, and then turns the subject with a neat, " _You_ , on the other hand, look _very_ well. One assumes your months in Asgard have been kind to you?"

Thor's brow furrows.

"They have," he allows, "Though they were uneventful."

Loki's smile thins.

"No hunts to amuse you? No quests? No feasts, for the so-heroic victor?" Thor's face darkens and he feels a dull satisfaction. He doesn't show it. Instead, he makes a sympathetic noise and adds, "How very _tragic_ for you. How _did_ you endure it?"

"Loki," Thor groans, "It was not like that. The feasts were in celebration for the recovery of the tesseract. No one rejoiced at your defeat."

_So you did celebrate._

His lip curls and he leans a little more into the warmth.

He wishes, suddenly, that he had not sat. This is so much _harder_ than he'd thought it would be.

"So Thor. Can I ask," Bruce says mildly, "If Asgard's been uneventful, where _have_ you been these last three months? I mean, not that you had to or anything, but why didn't you show up before this if you're here now?"

_Feasting. Questing._

_Forgetting._

He says nothing.

"I have been in Asgard," Thor says.

A friendly laugh.

"Yeah. I'd kind of guessed that. I guess I was more wondering: _What_ were you doing there?"

"In truth, I have been… fighting. In the hills."

"Oh? Fighting what?"

"Bilchsteim. Bandits. Trolls," Thor says vaguely.

Loki frowns slightly.

"Why were you wast— were you banished? _Again_?"

"No," Thor says, folding his arms across his chest.

It's not as effective as it should be when he's seated, coffee in hand, with a dibble of froth clinging to one moustache.

Loki lets out a mean snicker.

"Loki…" Thor groans.

"What did you do _this_ time? Start a war with Svartalfheim?"

"No," Thor says defensively, "And it was _not_ banishment, brother. It was a period of time, away from the courts to cool my head, and to not be watched."

"For three months."

"I—,"

"Nearly four now," he amends musingly.

"Loki, it was _not_ banishment."

"Of course. You _chose_ to be sent away from the capital for all that time."

"It was not," Thor explodes, "Since you must know, brother, I was sent away to protect _you_."

And this isn't funny anymore.

His smile is slipping and his eyes are searching Thor's face now, tearing at it for lies.

Nothing. _Nothing_.

And how can it be nothing when Thor has just said _that_?

"How?" he says, smooth and cold.

"Loki?" Thor says, frowning.

" _How_?" he says again, leaning forward.

"Your—you know your allies searched for you," Thor says, and he doesn't understand.

His allies have no way of reaching him. They are fearsome enough, true, especially in numbers, but they cannot walk from their homes in the void into the realms. Not without the tesseract to split a path open for them. Unless—

"You still have the tesseract, yes? You have not _lost_ it?" he says sharply.

"Yes. Well, not I. But father has hidden it."

His fingers are white on his knees.

"Oh. Well—," his tongue sticks at the 'good', but it is better than Thanos having it. So much better than that, "Well why does it matter then," he amends, "If they look for me? They exist in the void, not the known realms. They cannot reach me here."

Thor frowns.

"But father said—,"

Of course. Father said. That _would_ be it.

He straightens and pulls away, and suddenly he just feels tired.

"Yes? And just what _did_ he tell you?"

He expects a mindless platitude. An: 'It was for your own good' or 'It was for the good of Asgard'.

He doesn't expect Thor's face to crumple or for that look of—of _guilt,_ to stain his eyes. He feels the uneasiness begin to stir inside.

"He said—Loki, why did you not tell me what they _did_ to you to make you obey them?" Thor says, voice choked.

He feels himself stiffening.

This… is not something he wishes to discuss.

Not with Thor.

"I find it hard to imagine those words ever escaping his lips."

"Do not make light of this, brother. You _know_ that of which I speak. Why did you not _tell_ me?"

"There was nothing to tell," he says.

His lips feel numb. All of him is numb.

" _Why_ , brother? I would have been kinder, when I took you from that airship, had I but known how they had hurt you. Had I known the reason you had not returned was because you _could_ not, not because you had chosen to stay and ally yourself with them."

_But I did choose. And you did not ask. You wanted the tesseract, and you did not care enough then to ask._

The words stick in his throat, childish and pitiful, and his gaze slips down to the heater.

"Loki," Thor says, "Look at me. _Tell_ me."

And his gaze is snapping upwards, burning, and he wants to scream that Thor has no _right_ to order him now, none at all and he lost it when he left him and how can he care now, after everything _else_ , when he—

"Are you... crying?" he says uncertainly.

Thor isn't, but his eyes are moist. Dark, with misery and— It should be satisfying. Thor left him and called him 'adopted' he _wants_ to feel satisfied, but he just feels ill.

He does not want Thor's pity.

"I did not tell you because they did nothing," he says, and then, a little more desperately when nothing changes, "They plucked me from the void as I drifted. They helped me heal. They offered me a chance of safety and vengeance on _you_ and you _know_ that is the only _possible_ reason I needed for _anything_ ," and perhaps that is a slightly sore point, but there is no need for Bruce to look at him like that is there? "They did nothing to persuade me because I _needed_ no persuasion. I was happy enough to serve them."

"You lie, Loki. I know what they did. They were _monsters_ ," Thor says, slamming his coffee cup down and rising to his feet.

Anger is good. Anger is _better_ than misery.

He knows full well how easy it is for the one to twist into the other.

"But then, that should not surprise you," he says, and the words seem to invent themselves as he speaks, "They were _my_ allies and they do say that like calls to like."

There is a moment where Thor just looks blank. And so:

"Perhaps Laufey was not so despicable as we always believed; he at least had the sense to recognise what I _was_ and lea-"

He never gets to finish. Because suddenly Thor's eyes are flashing and his face is turning livid with temper and one step later he's standing before him, reaching for him before he can pull back, and both his hands are on his shoulders blunt and hard enough to bruise. And Thor is _shaking_ him.

 _"Stop,_ brother. Stop _speaking_ of yourself like this. You are no monster, Loki, and-"

There's a shift, and Bruce is standing.

"Thor," he says evenly, "Get off him."

Loki blinks.

Thor, too, is frowning.

"He is no monster."

"Yeah, I know that. But Thor? Shaking people isn't how we get our points across on Earth. Not even when the people we're trying to get them across to _aren't_ injured."

"I am fine," Loki says swiftly.

But Thor is already releasing him. He looks like he's stepped on somebody's kitten.

Loki eyes him a moment and decides he hates it.

"I am _fine,_ Odinson. Stop looking at me like you are Sulley and I am the garbage cube."

Thor doesn't look like he gets it.

Jane, Loki decides, disliking her _more,_ has been unforgivably lax.

There's a long moment where Bruce sits and Thor sits and no one says anything. And then:

"Father told me what they— _did_ , when they found you," Thor says.

Loki sends him a cold sneer.

He doesn't trust himself to speak. Not yet.

"Had I only had some way know—"

"No. No, you _knew_ of my allies when you came," he snaps, and so much for _that_ resolution, "Odin knew of what they did. Do not tell me you had no _way_ to know."

"I thought you dead _._ "

He is shaking still, but he is shaking now not with pain but with _hate_.

"Oh I know you did. You will forgive me if I am not touched when but one question to Heimdall, _one,_ would have _told_ you I yet lived. I do not blame you for being so swift to forget me, but do _not_ tell me now that you 'mourned' as though that somehow means I mattered to you. As though you actually cared. I may be _nothing_ now, but that you _can_ lie to me does not mean your lies stand any chance of _deceiving_ me _."_

"Loki, I do not lie! I did care," Thor says hotly, "I _do_ care."

"Really? Then why did you never _ask_?"

And then Thor is reaching out and grasping his arm and he fights the urge to flinch.

"Loki, I did not ask because I was selfish. I asked if— But I broke the bifrost and father was exhausted from his early wakening, and I was _selfish._ I never asked of you because I could not bear to be told that you were falling forever into nothing with no way to _stop_ it. No way to aid you. I mourned, and hoped for your sake you had perished in the wreckage of the stars."

And suddenly everything is numb. Weeks—months of hatred. And for-

"Oh," he says.

Thor's hand burns.

He stares at it blindly because it's there and it's _easier_ than Thor's face. So much easier.

Somehow he never considered Thor might have mourned not because he _had_ died but because he'd thought he _must._

"I cared, brother. I _swear_ to you I did not _know_. Father thought... but there was nothing he could _do,_ and he told no one. I thought— I learned better only later, when I confronted him about the false thing I had taken home. He said that it was necessary for your allies, for everyone, to think you were in Asgard, locked away but not powerless. That they could not know of the loss of your magic, else they would contact other sorcerers in the known realms to— Father said that here you would be _safe."_

He can't look at Bruce.

"How did you know? That it was not me?"

Thor shrugs.

"It named me 'brother', when father removed its muzzle. I knew then it could not be real. I was… unhappy."

"That... that was all?"

Thor hesitates.

"No... It _cried._ Whenever anyone visited. And when it was flogged it screamed before the third lash fell."

Loki swallows. Tries to squash the part of him that insists on being vaguely touched.

Bruce looks ill.

"I may have been too rash in my anger, when I confronted father. In hindsight, telling him that deceiving us with a false shadow and leaving you here were the actions of a coward and a fool may have been less than wise. He sent me to the hills."

"Ah."

"But before I left, he told me why it was needed. What they had done to you. What they would do to you again if they found you, lost and powerless. _How_ he knew. I was... and then I remembered our meeting and how I—," Thor breaks off, hand clenching in memory. "I am a poor liar, at best. He could not risk my exposing the pretence _."_

"And yet, you are not in the hills," he says mildly.

Thor waves a dismissive hand.

"Amora is fond of me."

Loki makes a sceptical noise. Thor ignores it.

"I asked Heimdall to send me word, should I be called for in this realm— father said if I was needed here he would not refuse to send me. Amora transported herself to us not an hour ago with news of your need, and took us to father. In truth, brother, I have been hoping for a call for some time. I think," Thor's face cracks into a smile, "I would have argued that Jane needing aid in finding a coffee mug was reason enough to come here, had she demanded me. I have missed you. Both of you."

It is all perfect. So very, very perfect.

Except for one small, tiny detail.

"And when _I_ called for you?" he says flatly, "What of then? Was that not enough of an excuse?"

Thor's brow creases.

"You jest, brother. I would have heard you. I need no messenger to tell me when _you_ call."

His breath catches, burning, because there is no lie in Thor's eyes. _There is no lie_.

And he remembers Professor Kirke and logic and Thor is not mad and this cannot be explained by self-deceit and Thor doesn't _know_. Not about his sentence or about anything, apparently, because either he did not listen or the collar blocked his call or Odin did and 'father said' was _enough._ And it hurts, a little that that is the 'why' for everything—for why the contempt he deserves for everything was never _there_ in Thor's eyes _—_ but it's so much _more_ than Thor knowing about everything and choosing anyway not to come.

So much more than he'd ever _looked_ for.

And Thor is still looking at him, brow creased with dawning suspicion, so he rolls his eyes and forces his mouth to twitch upwards into a sharp grin.

"Of course I jest. But for the collar, I have been fine. And you are the last person I would call, even if I did need aid."

Thor's eyes soften.

"I would come for you, brother, if you did need me. If I could. You know I would."

That hurts. So much more than it should.

He nods, a graceless jerk, and turns to Bruce because suddenly he can't—

Just can't.

"Bruce, do you want another drink?"

Bruce looks at him, hesitates, and nods.

"Coffe'd be great."

He nods. Rises. Ignores the wisps of steam rising from the half-full mug Bruce offers him and tries to make his leaving look like something that isn't a retreat.

"Loki… what _was_ your sentence here?" Thor blurts out, before he can escape.

"What?" he says, too sharp and too unsteady, twisting back _._

A few drops of coffee splash across his fingers and onto the carpet.

"Your sentence, brother. Were you treated—"

"Fine," he says numbly, and he _hates_ the way everything in him is freezing.

Hates the way his knees are suddenly locked and his palms are pricking with sweat, and how the anxiety is crashing inside his stomach over and over and over in icy waves. He is better than this. More than this. He is _Loki._ He's had less than a minute to adjust his thinking from Thor-left-me to Thor-never-knew and it shouldn't _be_ this terrifying to go back to everything that was Before.

"My magic was bound. I was put in prison. The collar hurt, a little, coming off but I was fine."

"Prison?" Thor says, brow creasing, "They put you in a dungeon?"

"Cell," he says.

His voice sounds strange, even to him.

"And this… this _helped_ you?" Thor demands. Not outraged, not yet. But not pleased.

"Yes," he lies. "It prevented me from being hit by female scientists in passing cars."

Thor laughs.

He smiles back and takes a few more steps towards the kitchen. Towards safety. Or what _will_ be safety if Thor takes his turned back as the dismissal it is. He wishes though, as he enters, that the bench were high enough to shield him properly from Thor's gaze.

The kettle is there. It's still hot, but he flicks it on anyway. Waits.

Tries to remember how _much_ of what did happen he has let slip.

"Truly, brother. How were you treated?"

His shoulders tighten.

"Oh, you know. Plenty of talking. Correction," he gropes, because he doesn't know what real prisons are supposed to _do._ The closest he's seen is Leia in the Death Star and V's cell and he doubts describing either would help. But he knows a little and he has read the Geneva Conventions, so:

"They washed me. Clothed me. Fed me. I did not enjoy myself," he produces. "It was... dull."

Thor laughs again.

His gaze slips back over before he can stop it.

"Dull. That would be it, of course," Thor says, and his face is splitting into a grin that is almost... relieved, "Only _you_ could be redeemed through boredom, brother. I think in your sentence you came by your just deserts."

He laughs too, and he can see Bruce just… watching him.

The mortal's face is white. But he doesn't say anything, and he's so grateful it almost hurts.

He doesn't _want_ Thor to know. Doesn't want the pity or the contempt that will lace his eyes if he ever learns of the months that followed his retreat. That will come if Thor ever learns of how he lay there, _knowing_ what was coming, begging for him like a whipped cur, useless and _worthless_ and—

"Truly, father should have sent us both to this realm to humble us centuries ago."

 _Nothing_.

He smiles back, and he wants to be sick.

The bathroom is close. He wonders, distantly, if it has mirrors. But it doesn't matter. He won't see them if he doesn't turn on the light. His throat is burning and he smiles harder; makes some excuse only Thor swallows. That only Thor _needs_ to swallow.

_Just deserts._

And then he's kneeling next to the toilet in the dark trying desperately to be _quiet_ so Thor won't hear.

He sits in there a long time when he is done, knees tucked up to his chin.

Eventually, the trembling stops.

He doesn't make Bruce's coffee when he leaves. Thor is still talking with him and he's better now and it should be fine, but he—can't. Not now. Instead, he slips inside the bedroom, with Pepper and Tony and Steve. He hesitates in the doorway, but she doesn't tell him to go away so he perches beside her on the bed and just... listens. Stares at the floor so he won't have to see if Pepper is looking at him the way Bruce had.

At some point, she switches the phone onto speaker.

She doesn't say he's here and he doesn't say anything. Just keeps on listening.

Tony is complaining about having to wait more than two minutes for his meal. Steve is remarking that he's kind of surprised they're open now at all, because it's past _twelve._

Nothing is happening.

And slowly, slowly, the tightness in his stomach starts to unwind.

He should try again, he knows. He failed, and he promised himself he would _try_ to be more, for them. He should leave and smile at Thor and—

_Just deserts._

He swallows, and his hands are mangling the bedclothes.

He stops. Forces himself to be still.

He doesn't rise.

Later. Later he will go and be civil to Thor.

For now, all he wants to do is sit here, and wait.

OoOoOoOoO

Ten minutes of bad service and no food later, Jarvis speaks.

_'Sir?'_

Tony jerks upright, suddenly alert, and sees Steve mirroring him to the side.

"Yeah?" he says.

It's probably nothing. Could easily be nothing or just a weather update or something else useless and nasty and disappointing or-

_'I have located Mr Odinson's car.'_


	36. Falling in Free Flight

The biggest problem, Tony decides, isn't going to be stopping the car. Stopping the car will be simple. It's driving down 3rd Avenue, past Starbucks, and unless there are a few superheroes or ninjas in the back with maybe the Abomination and a couple of tank missiles, the sleek black hatchback's got nothing to put up against him and Steve.

So nope. Not the problem. The problem is going to be the traffic.

Logically, of course, there shouldn't be much. Shitty storm, night hours—no one should be out in this. Logically. But this is New York and people are, and while it's one thing to watch a few dozen cars get squished when he's trying to stop Obie or Hammer or Loki, it's not quite the same to land smack dab in the middle of three lanes of traffic when no one is actively threatening them already. And that's without the whole issue of hostages, which nothing Polt's minions have done so far has suggested they won't be dirty enough to take.

"You could wait until they've stopped already, at a light or something? Land directly in front of them so you don't cut anyone off?" is Steve's offering, rough with static.

They're half way there already because Jarvis checked that the McDonald's cameras hadn't been hacked and beyond that neither of them could think of a better reason than 'It's drier' to plan in McDonald's rather than mid-flight.

"Not going to help with the other people on the road. I mean, you jog there daily. What do _you_ think'd happen if I just randomly landed in front of one street? Only takes one person seeing us coming, swerving and—"

"And if we're unlucky, we get a pile-up," Steve finishes for him. "I know."

He's seen ' _Cars'_. He probably does.

"But you said they've been circling, didn't you? So we've got, not much, but at least a bit more time to think about it. And we can always hover, wait until we do have something concrete before landing."

"Yeah, except that when they work out no one's hiding in the Tower? My bet is they scram."

Steve says nothing to that.

"They disabled Jarvis. They didn't overwrite him like Phil used to," Pepper says, almost steadily, "If they try to do a manual search all over the Tower…"

"True," Tony allows, "At least until—,"

"Until quite a bit, Tony," Pepper cuts him off firmly, "They might be suspicious when Bruce doesn't become the 'Other Guy', but if they keep doing what they have been doing so far they'll try to up the concentration of blue venom and rely on it diffusing into wherever we've managed to hide. They've got no reason to think we _have_ a way out of the Tower, or even out of that floor. And until the blue venom on that level goes they can't check to see where we've gone."

If, Tony thinks. But he can't deny the logic there, or the rising feeling of hope.

"Have I mentioned recently that I love you, Pepper?"

"Once or twice," she says drily.

Someone snorts. Steve, maybe?

"They could, however, have gas masks, as you and Steve do," Loki says, and wait, what?

" _Loki_?" Tony blurts out, "I thought you were supposed to be chilling with Bolt."

There's an awkward pause, before the demigod says coolly:

"I was. And now I am not."

"That bad?" Tony asks sympathetically.

"That I am not with Thor," Loki says frostily, "Does _not_ mean that things went poorly."

"In any case," Steve says diplomatically, "Pepper's got a point. If they bothered to use the blue venom at all, I'd say it was a fair bet that they were trying to avoid fighting you directly. But it's been twenty minutes now, and I'm not sure how long Polt's going to risk waiting. We need to think of something. Can you hack into the radio systems of the civilian traffic? Do a mass broadcast telling everyone who isn't them to clear out?"

"This is New York, Cap. No one's going to scram because I tell them too. Some of them wouldn't if the _police_ told them too."

Steve makes a disapproving noise.

Tony half grins at nothing, without amusement.

"Does it matter? Truly?" Loki says, "When I walked those streets, there were people wandering everywhere. Someone will probably die in the crossfire whatever you do. But the longer you delay landing, the more chance there is that the serum will get away."

"It does," Tony says firmly, "Matter, that is. For one thing, buddy, no one _is_ walking in this storm. Not in this part of the city. We stop the traffic, we solve all our problems. For another, the whole for the Ends justifies the Means shtick? That would be SHIELD's line, not ours."

Loki makes a dissatisfied noise, but he doesn't argue.

They're four minutes away.

The car's turned down East 51st Street now. There's less traffic there, and the streets are narrower which is okay. Good, even. But not good enough.

 _We need to stop the traffic_.

"Jarvis?" Tony says at last, "I want the traffic lights on 5th Avenue and 51st street red. From now on? No one turns into 5th Avenue above 53rd Street or 51st street anywhere behind our Tesla Model S wannabe at all. And when it gets to the intersection, I want 5th Avenue to be the _only_ way the lights'll let it turn. No one gets in after it. Got it?"

"Understood, sir," Jarvis says.

It's a gamble, yes. The car could stay banked up with… whatever banks up at East 51st when the lights don't change. People could get up, get out, and run. It could go down Park Avenue instead. But he's got four minutes and 5th Avenue's where the car's looped around the last three times and there's just not enough time to plan anything _better_.

There's a few moments of silence, where no one says anything. Then:

"Will that work?" Loki demands.

"At this point?" Tony says, more confidently than he's feeling, "It almost has to."

OoOoOoOoO

Steve talks a lot during the next few minutes. He speaks of preventing Polt's agents from taking civilian hostages. Of avoiding being seen too soon. Of remaining aware that anyone could be a shape-shifter and have weapons or the serum, and dismissing nothing just because it is small or fluffy or old and does not look like a threat.

Loki and Pepper listen.

For himself, he listens because he has nothing to say now. Steve and Tony know the risks. If they are not Thor, they are skilled enough at fighting. He can change nothing Polt will do by worrying and he can think of nothing to add that will make the chance of Tony's plan working higher than it already is. And anyway he does not feel like talking anymore. If he talks without purpose, he will talk about Thor, and he does not want to talk about Thor until he knows he will not be sick again on Pepper's carpet.

He doesn't know why Pepper does not speak.

"They'll probably try to call for back-up as soon as they know we're there, too," Steve is saying now, "So if you can locate whatever they're using to communicate, knock it out. If you can't, just focus on not being hit by anything they throw at us and making sure no one gets away until we've located this serum."

Tony makes a scoffing noise.

"I've got IR scanning modes and multi-targeting systems built into this baby. Also, spectra? Tissue paper. You just worry about not letting anything get through those tights. I mean, level with me here: Who even _designed_ spandex as a battle suit?"

"It's not all spandex, Tony," Steve protests, "There's Kevlar too."

"You have Kevlar in your tights," Tony says flatly.

"… No," Steve allows, "But I have it on my upper chest. _And_ my helmet."

"My point stands, Spangles. You should let me look at that for you though. Come up with some sort of mesh that manages to show off your muscles _and_ give you decent protection. Tell you what, I'll put it on my to-do list. Right after the infinite-stretch Hulk-pants. And the StarkPhone."

Loki bites back an undignified snort.

" _Tony_ ," Steve groans.

"I'll do it for free, too. Wave the consulting fees. You know, I could even—"

"Or," Steve cuts him off ruthlessly, "Seeing as we're one minute away now we could focus instead on the plan. Which I assume is working?"

There is a slight pause.

"Yeah. We could do that," he hears Tony say, eventually, "They've turned."

_They've turned._

They have turned and Tony was right and a sharp sickness is exploding inside him that is almost hope. Because they will move, Steve and Tony, to _stop_ Polt now they are not concerned about their traffic and there will be no more delays and there will be an—No. No, not an _end_. But if this is the blackmail he thinks it has been, than the path to an end will at least _open_ once the serum is destroyed. Will at least—

"You could not have said this before?" he hears himself say.

"I think you covered pretty much everything safety-wise though, Cap," Tony rambles on, either ignoring him or just not hearing, "And I mean, _really_ everything."

His tone doesn't suggest it's a compliment.

"You'll be careful, won't you? Both of you," Pepper says, before Steve can respond, "Don't get hit by anything _blue_."

"I will. Not get hit, be careful. I'll be careful. Just like I always am," Tony says.

"Past history," Jarvis says, "Would suggest those two statements are not always entirely inclusive, sir."

"Thanks for that, Jarvis. Always nice to know you've got my back."

"Indeed, sir."

Loki does snort this time.

He feels... not well, no, because mostly he still feels tired and sore, and like he wants to stab Odin through his remaining eye and maybe rip Polt apart slowly, piece by piece, while he screams. But he feels better. Less like standing will make him be sick again and less like he is one giant nerve, bared raw and bleeding for everyone to _see_.

He rises. Pepper looks up sharply at the movement, and he mouths _Bruce_ and _news_ and sends her the most reassuring look he can.

She nods. And then Tony is speaking again, voice suddenly serious.

"Better prep yourself, Cap. We're going in."

OoOoOoOoO

They land directly in front of the car.

Or rather, Tony does, shoulders braced and repulsors readied for impact. Steve rolls up to his feet where he got dropped just slightly to the side, shield raised defensively.

"Aren't you going to—"

Whatever Steve is going to say is cut off by the impact of over one ton of solid metal against Tony's stomach which, yes, he'd expected, but still. Inconsiderate is what it is. Couldn't they have at least _tried_ to brake? His breath leaves his lungs in a gasp that's frankly pathetic and he knows he's going to get bruises from this. He adds both to the already lengthy list of Reasons he Dislikes Polt.

His feet scrape against the asphalt, sparks flying.

For two seconds, his HUD flickers. He hears a crash. Something hard bouncing off his armour.

And then sight flickers back into existence.

The car's worse off than him, from what he can make out. It's skidded to a halt a few meters away and its tyres are blown. Its front vaguely resembles the face of a Persian cat. Two of the car doors are open but he can't make out a thing inside it through the darkness and the rain. He switches the HUD input to IR. Not perfect, not even close, but at IR is at least coming up with vaguely human-shaped blobs.

"Tony?" Pepper says.

"All fine here, Pepper. We're good," he says, and then: "There's six of 'em, Cap."

"On it," Steve says, and then dives to the side as something small and hard lands with a sharp hiss in the water almost exactly where he was.

Silenced bullets? Tranquilizers? Tony doesn't know and he's not going to look.

"Comms?"

"Scanning for them."

Another something bounces off his armour, hard enough to bruise.

Tony fires back, multi-target on, for the six blobs. One bullet shatters the window. The other five slam into the outer shell, barely denting it.

Not unexpected. Still unwelcome.

"There are six," he hears himself say, mouth on auto, "Six signals. My guess is they've got earpieces. I give it, what? Five minutes? Ten, if we're lucky? Before backup gets here. They have to have contacted HQ by now."

Probably, Steve knows all this. But he nods like it's useful anyway.

Steve, Tony decides then, could probably nod seriously listening to dating advice from Hammer.

"Watch out for snipers, Tony. Clint can't be the only one they've got."

Tony nods, and returns the favour by not reminding Steve that _he's_ the one who needs to be watching out because he's the one who's in spandex. And then he hasn't got time to think about Steve or snipers because he's closing the ten feet of distance between him and the car doors, ignoring the steady hail of bullets from the blobs that are coalescing now into shapes that are definitely human.

Humans with zero cover.

Two of the agents keep firing at him with their handguns anyway.

And, "Seriously? _Handguns_?" he says, "I'm feeling slighted here. Where are all the tank missiles?"

"Fuck you, Stark," one of them snarls.

Inventive they are not.

He'd waste more time insulting their weapon choice except: backup.

He fires again, and while one of them twists to the side, two more slump to the ground. Not dead, going by the one who's heat signature says she's moving and trying to pull out another weapon, which says disturbing things about the quality of body armour these agents must have. Then again, he thinks, sending them two more shots, they were thinking they'd be dealing with the Hulk…

To the side, he sees one of the men leap at Steve.

Steve's shield cracks against his chest and he— doesn't even flinch?

 _'Tony?'_ Bruce says, flaring static, _'If it's anything like the pre-serum, the serum should be releasing abnormal radiation. If you can, scan for that, or for an area where even normal levels of radiation are absent in case they've put it in lead casing.'_

"Jarvis? Get on that."

_'Yes, sir.'_

He fires a full-powered dual repulsor blast at the next one and this time, _this_ time, he gets a result. He doesn't know if it's good or bad that he blows away part of a chest and the upper shoulder but he's going with a definite negative that the agent's chest is _closing over_ and she's getting _up_.

"Shit."

"How inventive, Stark," the agent drawls.

And then she's shifting, transforming into something that's colder and stronger and Tony switches the HUD back to the visible spectrum just in time to see a cold, grey-scaled fist going straight for his chest. He grabs it half-way. Squeezes. He's as strong as—her? him? It. But barely.

"You are a weak man in a tin suit, Stark. You will lose. And you will _kneel_."

"I honestly don't know whether that says more about your lack of intelligence or your under appreciation of mine. No wait. That's tautology right there."

It sneers, forcing his hands slowly upwards.

"You _fear_ us. You should."

There's a bulge starting out from its side and shit, is that an extra _limb_ forming?

It is. He knows, because moments later it's ripped through its own shirt and is tearing at a joint in his right pauldron, bending the metal back through sheer strength. At its other side, a second lump is forming. Another arm? He decides not to wait this time to find out.

He powers up his chest and kicks it in the shins. Hard.

His hands are somewhere above his head now.

"Pathetic," it hisses.

And then its eyes widen, as Tony sends it a full-on, frontal blast, straight at its unprotected, suit-clad sternum. This time, it doesn't rise. Just collapses into a smoking heap, a hole roughly the length of his foot blown straight through the middle of it. He makes a mental note of that. Apparently, an incinerated heart equals lethal, even to... whatever the hell that was.

"Loki," he says, switching back to IR and targeting the vital organs of a pair of agents trying to shoot at Steve, "What's your general knowledge like on creepy, scaly shape shifters?"

 _'The Chitauri and the Skrulls come to mind. But any_ decent _shape-shifter could cover themself with scales if they so desired.'_

Right. Helpful.

The two agents go down, ridiculously easily. Bluffing? Maybe. Or maybe they're just not all whatever the scaly one was.

Three left.

He fires.

Two left.

They're not getting up again and they're bleeding out, so Tony decides they're dead.

Definitely not whatever Scales was.

_'Why?'_

"Oh. You know," he says, sending a blast at the agent that's fighting Steve, "Just killing them here. I think there are two of them."

' _Ah. There was one at the Tower, too. I imagine they are working as thugs for Polt.'_

"Yeah. Kind of got that. Failed to mention the whole _regenerating chest_ thing. And the _extra arms_."

Steve's agent is transforming too now.

He's barely registering in the IR spectrum and once more Tony switches the HUD back to normal _._

 _'Granting oneself additional limbs is not hard. And transforming from a wounded body into a healthy one is relatively straight forward, provided one is not dead._ I _lived through decapitation once.'_

A bullet whistles over Steve's shoulder and Tony shoots the last car-agent in the back of the neck.

One left.

"I could have lived without that mental image, thanks."

Loki snorts.

The next few seconds pass in a blur of shouting and silenced gunfire and Steve demonstrating exactly why he deserves a black belt in something for his fighting skills. Like Scales I, Scales II seems all but immune to gunfire, and Tony attributes that to the regeneration rate.

He'd finish it, but he can't get in a clean shot without risking hitting Steve.

' _Sir? I am detecting an absence of normal radiation, located at the left thigh of the shape-shifter you terminated.'_

"On it, Jarvis."

Steve's still fighting. He's got his shield, hasn't thrown it, which is good. He's not been hit yet. But then, _his_ opponent doesn't seem to be growing any extra appendages.

Tony scans the nearby buildings for backup, but so far there's nothing.

"Cap? You got this, or do you want a hand?"

Steve twists out of the way of another blow.

"If you can. Nothing I have seems to be touching him."

"Disadvantages of fighting retro, buddy."

"Thanks, Tony."

Tony grins, and switches off the external audio.

' _In two seconds, I'm going to fire at its back. Get ready to duck.'_

Steve doesn't nod, but he shifts his stance and grips his shield a bit more firmly, and that's all Tony needs. He waits until Scales II is properly distracted—it seems to be trying, and failing, to put Steve between it and Tony—and sends a chest-based blast at its back. It's full power, and apparently it works because the agent collapses to the ground. Steve bends down and feels its neck.

"Dead."

Tony nods.

Then he kneels down and reaches into the pocket of Scales I, feeling for the serum. Or rather, for the small lead case he suspects it might be inside and opening it. There's a dart in it that looks like a tranquilizer emitting exactly the radiation he needs.

"It's it," he says, turning towards Steve, "We've got it."

He expects something close to happiness on the captain's face. He doesn't expect concern.

And then Steve shouts "Watch out!" and dives towards him, and he still doesn't get it.

Not until he hears the soft clunk of something hard against the shield which is now covering his shoulder as something jagged and fast from high above thuds against it and drops to the ground. Could it have hit? He doesn't know. Doesn't have time to think about it, because suddenly Steve is arching backwards, every tendon in his neck bulging with strain, mouth open in a howling _scream_. He's going for his leg, gouging at it, and Tony dives at him to stop him before he can think because this is too much like Loki after Clint and this is Steve and this isn't supposed to happen. No one was a ninja and they'd known snipers might be there and this _wasn't supposed to happen_.

' _Tony? Tony what has happened?'_

_'Have you got the serum?'_

_'Are you okay? Tony, are you okay?'_

_'Captain Rogers has been injured, Ms Potts.'_

He drags Steve back, behind the car.

He thinks that works because he doesn't hear any more shots.

 _'Tony'_ Bruce says calmly, _'I need you to take Steve here. You've got the serum. You're done there. Bring Steve to me and Loki here._ '

He shouldn't need to be told this.

"Right," he says, mechanically.

He wonders if he's in shock.

"I'll be there soon. Get ready for us."

He doesn't wait for a reply. Just picks up the serum. The shield. Keeps holding the thrashing, still-screaming Steve. Forces his arms to his sides so he won't fall or tear himself apart mid-flight. Tries not to think about what might have happened if he had just been a few minutes _faster._

Tries not to think about how the person screaming should have been him.

OoOoOoOoO

Loki paces.

Tony is taking a circular route to Pepper's apartment.

He doesn't know if that's good enough to shake pursuit. He hopes it will be. It should be.

His hands won't stop shaking.

"Brother?"

He doesn't reply.

"Brother," Thor says, more firmly, and suddenly there is a hand on his shoulder, warm and loose enough for him to pull away.

Perversely, he stills.

"He will be well, brother."

"And if he is _not_?" Loki says, viciously soft.

"Then we will avenge him. And I will hunt down Polt at your side until he lies at our feet in pieces," Thor replies steadily, holding his gaze.

It is Loki who must looks away first. He who must wrench himself free and pace and pace and remind himself he doesn't need Thor and he doesn't _want_ Thor and a few easy, empty words change _nothing._

It takes Tony ten minutes to reach them.

Steve doesn't stop screaming

OoOoOoOoO

Bruce is waiting for him when Tony lands, hand in a white cast. They're all there, actually, now he looks.

Thor looks well, Pepper horrified and Loki like shit. But they're all standing and none of them are screaming and that's maybe still not good but it's good _enough_.

"Can you—?" Tony says, moving forwards.

He doesn't quite release Steve but he doesn't hold him as tightly as before because he needs them to do something because he isn't a doctor and he isn't a sorcerer and he doesn't know what to do to fix this.

Bruce moves towards him, face grey with strain.

"I think it's an over-stimulation of the neuron cells. Sensory overload. If we could—"

Loki steps forward, and then he's speaking, cutting Bruce off with a hissed:

"Hold him still."

Tony tries. It's difficult mainly because the pain is making Steve stronger even than his normal, super-strong self and he's trying to rip his leg apart and Tony's still hampered by the fact that even though the suit's tough he's not _used_ to restraining people and he's trying not to hurt Steve more and this is Captain America and he's not supposed to be _able_ to hurt and can he even _be_ hurt more than this?

And then Loki's arm's moving and he's going to use magic or draw out the venom or—

Loki's fist collides with Steve's chin with a sickening crunch. The supersoldier slumps bonelessly against Tony's chest, and he swallows drily. The silence is deafening after the screaming.

"The hell, Loki?"

"It _worked_ , did it not?" Loki snaps, kneeling by Steve's legs.

"Brother?" Thor starts, uncertain.

Loki ignores him. His hands don't look quite steady. But then they move, lightning fast, and something thin and hard and sharp is out of Steve's leg and in his hand. The demigod sneers at it, disgusted, before tossing it into a corner.

Not fainting then.

Steve's leg bleeds sluggishly red.

"Take him to the bedroom and lie him down."

Tony's brain is stuck.

"You wish to keep on holding him?" Loki snaps, eyes flashing green fire, "Fine. But he will not thank you for it when he wakes covered in bruises and bleeding, nor when he must extract himself so that he can drink."

Numbly, Tony moves.

Pepper drags back the bedclothes for him, and back up after he dumps Steve down. Then Tony moves back to allow in everyone else. Tries to not think about how pale Steve looks beneath the bedclothes. Occasionally, a part of the supersoldier twitches with short, wracking spasms.

"It's not lethal, the blue venom. Not in small doses," Loki says, hovering by the bedside, "It," a fleeting glance upwards past his shoulder, to Bruce or maybe Thor, and then a stiff shrug, "Hurts. That is its purpose. Like _Crucio_. Everything is inside the mind. Nothing is _actually_ being damaged. And that, I think, is all he was stuck by. But I admit I do not know how long it will take him to recover. I have not seen it used on a human before."

"You can't do anything to," Tony waves a hand vaguely, "Fix him faster?"

"Perhaps," Loki says, "But I would prefer not to."

"Why?"

"Would _you_ test out an untried, unknown cure for a common cold on Pepper?"

"... Fair enough," Tony allows, "Mind, I don't think I'd punch her in the jaw either..."

"Thank you," Pepper says.

Loki doesn't smile.

"You would if you had ever felt the blue venom yourself," he says.

There's not much Tony can say to that one, so he doesn't reply. Just watches as Steve's hand clenches again and Loki reaches out and sort of just... rests his fingers on it for a moment, and then twitches them back like he's not sure touching people is okay.

"I will remain with him," Loki says, after a moment or two. "In case I am wrong and anything does change. But I doubt," a pointed look at Thor, "That _all_ of us will be needed."

Comforting, Tony thinks.

Still. It is, in a way.

At least Loki seems to vaguely know what to _do._

"I'll stay too. Doctor," Bruce adds.

He isn't the right sort, technically speaking. But then none of them are, so Tony doesn't challenge it.

Neither does Loki. The demigod just shuffles backwards a bit and lets him start feeling Steve's wrist.

"BP," Bruce clarifies.

Loki nods, eyes blank.

There's a moment of silence. And then:

"I'll wait in the other room. With _you_ , Thor. If that's okay?" Pepper announces.

Thor blinks and then nods at her and Tony wonders, suddenly, if some non-verbal exchange just happened that he missed because Pepper's moving past him looking determined and Loki's expression, before it morphs back to that careful blankness, is almost grateful.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, brother?" Thor says, hesitating. "Before I leave?"

"I need nothing."

"And Steve...?"

Slightly, ever so slightly, Loki thaws.

"He needs _rest._ "

Thor nods, brow clearing a bit.

"I shall leave you then, brother. Bruce. If you change your mind or there is something I can do for Steve or for either of you, tell me. I will be in the other room."

"Thanks, Thor," Bruce says, "If we need you, we'll call."

Loki is silent.

Thor leaves. Or rather, he half does because he pauses at the doorway when Tony steps aside to let him pass and turns to look at him, eyes painfully earnest. His voice, when he speaks, is low.

"They are… friends? My brother and Steve?"

Tony shrugs. Nods.

The point of this is what?

"They are," he says anyway, and then, because it's not _just_ Steve, "And me. And Bruce. Hard to not like him, really. I mean, he gets science and likes _Star Wars._ Hope you're hearing this, Robbie," he adds, slightly louder, "For future reference, ego boosts and black coffee are a fair exchange."

Loki shoots Tony a distinctly unimpressed look.

Thor plows onwards, ignoring him, still radiating sincerity.

"I guessed as much. If that is so then you were willing to befriend my brother, to offer him a place in your home and at your side after SHIELD taught my brother the lessons he so sorely needed, even after all the harm he brought to this realm. For that, you have my gratitude, Tony Stark, and my friendship. You, Bruce and Steve all."

Wait, gratitude? Friendship?

For what SHIELD _did?_

He stares at Thor, stares at his _smile,_ and feels his right hand bunching into a solid fist.

He's about to say the _hell_ SHIELD taught Loki, how can Thor be _sick_ enough to call what happened _needed_ , but he's still looking at Loki and suddenly he realises the demigod's expression has flipped one-eighty. All the blankness is gone. He's _white._ His hands are white and under the bruises his face is white and even his _lips_ are white and in his eyes is raw fear mixed with a terrible, desperate _plea_. His hands are curled into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and Tony wonders if he even knows he's doing it. Bruce's back is very still.

"Um. Sure. Cool," he hears himself say, tearing his gaze from Loki's, "I'll remember that. Maybe. Possibly. You realise I don't do feelings, right?"

Loki draws in a shuddering breath, and turns his face away.

Thor laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

Tony thinks he feels his teeth rattle.

"I am grateful nonetheless. There are not many who would have done as much for my brother. And many who would have done less."

Less. Right.

He sends Thor a fake grin that seems to do the trick because Thor grins back and says he hopes Steve wakes soon feeling better and repeats that if they need him for anything, anything at all, he will be in the other room with Pepper. And then, after one last, lingering look at Loki that reminds Tony of a small puppy trying to _not_ ask for a walk, he leaves.

Tony says he'll be out in a moment.

Then he closes the door and wanders over to Loki, now studiously examining the carpet.

"So. What'd you tell him happened at SHIELD?"

The demigod's eyes snap up to his, startled. Wide.

"Don't even try it, Robbie. He didn't get that story from Heimdall. Might have got it from your dad, seeing as your dad seems like a giant bag of dicks, but somehow I'm thinking not. Not with the puppy eyes you just shot me. Spill."

A hint of defensiveness creeps into Loki's face.

"I simply told him that SHIELD fed, clothed and washed me, and that I was bored. I allowed him to draw his own conclusions."

Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Uh huh."

Loki's gaze slips from his face down to where Bruce is now fussing over Steve's leg, like oil down wet glass.

"... I may have implied I was fine, and that their priority was my welfare and my so-desired 'redemption'."

Tony slumps down at the foot of the bed. There are lots of things he probably should say here. Sensible things like, _Too many people know. Everything was filmed. Eventually, someone's going to tell him or he's going to ask Heimdall and you'd be better off doing it on your own terms now while you can._ But he remembers Afghanistan and he thinks maybe, if Obie had asked or Rhodey, if he'd had happen what Loki had happen, he might have just said, _They tried to make me build a 'Jericho' and I said I would and built the Iron Man suit instead_ and allowed them to draw their own conclusions too.

"We're going to have to warn Steve. Tasha and Clint too, if Thor's going to keep saying things like that," he says, eventually. "And Pepper."

Loki breathes in, a shallow hiss.

"You… you do not intend to tell him, then?" he says, carefully flat.

"That would be a no. Or did you miss the whole, 'Okay I'll accept your gratitude and not punch you in the face you oblivious asshole' thing back there?"

That gets a quick glance and a smile, razor-thin and fleeting but _there_.

"I did not. I thought you might perhaps be planning to tell him somewhere else, where I could not hear. To be..." Loki looks like he's searching for a word that isn't 'a lying little shit'. After a delicate pause, he produces a lame, "Tactful."

Tony snorts. Bruce doesn't.

"I want that on record, Loki. You, thinking I might be being tactful."

The smile lasts a bit longer this time, and it's softer somehow. Almost fond. Then Loki goes back to staring at Steve's hand. Tony wonders if there's enough room unoccupied by the supersoldier to flop backwards on the bed. His eyelids feel like lead.

The door clicks open before he can try.

It's Pepper.

"Steve's fine," Tony says, lurching upright, "Loki? You're officially in charge of alerting me if Steve wakes. When he wakes. And Pepper. Pronto. Yes?"

"I will," Loki promises.

Privately, Tony wonders.

Loki looks like he'll be asleep well before that happens. But he doesn't say so. Just because the demigod looks like he's lost a battle with a meat grinder doesn't necessarily mean he's close to collapse. He's seen people stay awake through worse. And anyway, there's Bruce. Still... making a vague, be-there-in-a-moment gesture to Pepper, he leaves the room, fills two glasses with cold water sets them on the table next to the bed. And then fetches what Thor helpfully tells him is Bruce's coffee.

"For when Steve wakes. And in case Misters Green-and-Ugly and I-Need-Nothing get thirsty at some point." _And don't fancy sneaking out past Thor_ , he doesn't add.

Bruce looks touched. Loki doesn't.

"I am capable of walking ten meters out the doorway to the sink, Tony," he says ungratefully.

"Sure you are," Tony agrees placidly.

Loki shoots him a dirty look, but he doesn't say anything more.

And as Tony leaves, he also catches him reaching for the glass.


	37. Landing

He should not have cast aside the dart.

He should, Loki thinks pacing, water firmly in hand, have kept it. If he had _kept_ it, he could have seen how much of it was left and used that to estimate how long Steve will lie there, white and motionless. If he had kept it, studying it now would have given him something to _do._ He still can, of course, but only if he risks Thor and he is not yet ready to risk Thor. Not when Thor will smile and care and _thank_ them after—

The wall looms before him, stark and white.

It does that entirely too often in this tiny, cramped apartment. He stops. Turns. Keeps pacing.

Stupid, of course, to blame Thor now.

Of course Thor is grateful that he is not trying to kill him, since he has so illogically decided that adoption does not matter and Frost Giants are no longer monsters. Of course he would say this, when Loki has himself told him he was treated well in his absence and that SHIELD cared. He knows this. He _knows_ this, so why does the thought that Thor might think what happened _worth_ the result hurt so much? He hates Thor, so why can he not _stop?_

He wishes Steve would wake. Steve would know what to say. Steve would know what to _do._

"... Do you think we're safe here?" Bruce says, breaking the silence.

"I sincerely doubt it."

"… Right."

Belatedly, Loki wonders if the mortal was in search of a solution to the problem. Possibly. Probably. But what solution is there?

He has sent his projections here to people, not to places, and during his invasion he had relied on minions for transportation. He did not know how to get to them then, and he has made no study of Midgardian geography since. He does not even know how to get _here_. Teleporting might work, but he doubts he has the strength. If he cannot even heal his side without screaming, what chance has he of that? And even if he could, he does not know where is safe. He does not know where Polt's influence starts any better than he knows where SHIELD's reach ends. Bruce would be better off asking Tony this. Tony or Thor.

Still. Bruce has not asked them, and so:

"If somewhere was safe, Thor could probably fly you there," he offers, eventually.

It is the best he can do.

He wonders though, as he speaks, how many agents have the blue venom. Wonders how good a shot they are.

Wonders how many are watching this apartment, waiting for them to make a _mistake_.

"Not Tony?"

Loki shrugs.

"He would be better company, certainly. He has the disadvantage of not being able to set Mjolnir on your chest to stop your Hulk if you transform."

Silence.

The suggestion is not that bad, surely?

"You do not have to. It was merely an idea," he says defensively.

"No, no, I just… I mean, it would actually stop me?"

Bruce sounds… Loki is not quite sure what he sounds like.

"Why not? It stops most people." _It stopped me._ "The Allfather has enchanted its weight to be infinite when those who are not," his lip curls into a sneer, " _worthy_ , attempt to lift it. I doubt you are enough so to shift it."

"Thanks."

"It is no insult. Fully half the population of Asgard would have difficulty doing so."

"From what I've heard about Asgard so far, the fact that any of them can is a surprise."

Loki snorts, and crushes the _thing_ inside his chest that insists on being vaguely touched.

"You forget, Bruce, that 'worth' in this instance is defined solely by Odin."

"... Right. And just what does that entail? _"_

_I could have done it._

_For you. For all of us._

"You know," Loki says, and then he must stifle a laugh because this is hilarious, isn't it? _Isn't it?_ "I don't actually know. I used to think it meant putting Asgard first and trying to protect her people. Casting aside all selfless ambition, protecting the Nine Realms, preserving peace or _making_ it... But it isn't, of course. Or not only. The methods mattered. I never could quite work out how. I remember though, when Thor was in SHIELD's cells, trying to lift it. I was King then, you understand, and I thought— But I wasn't, of course," _Why is he saying this? Why can't he stop?_ "It must have been so _amusing_ for him lying there, watching me try."

Bruce isn't laughing.

His good hand is white where it's gripping the side of the bed.

When he speaks though, his voice is carefully neutral.

"I remember when I was a kid. I was six and it was Christmas, and I'd gone downstairs to open presents early. See if Santa had been and all, you know?"

Loki has both read and watched 'The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe', and so he nods.

"I succeeded in getting to the tree; no one really watched me much then," Bruce continues, still carefully casual, like his tale is no more important than the latest news or the weather. But something in his eyes is _wrong._ "I can't remember what I was building now. Something with the mechanics set I'd gotten, I know. My father... He was a scientist, before he lost his job. Advanced physics. I think I thought he'd be proud of me if I showed I was like him too."

Loki remembers Bruce's file. ' _Anger issues'_ , Barton had said, clipped and professionally detached. ' _Low self esteem. Father killed his mother in front of him when he was a kid, apparently. Court records say they might have been trying to leave him.'_

"He wasn't?" he guesses.

"Not really. He was paranoid about me having mutant genes. Hated them. Kind of like Polt seems, in a way, only up until me my dad was content to quietly hate. But he took my little construction as proof that I was— twisted, somehow, since he felt no normal kid would have been that smart that young. He smashed the thing to pieces. I think I was too shocked to cry. Mum tried to stop him. It was the first time he'd ever hit me. Hit either of us, I guess. Happy Christmas, hmm?"

_Up until me._

Loki swallows, and wonders what there is to say.

"Your father sounds worse than mine," he says at last.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I guess what I'm trying to say is, fathers can be hell. That doesn't make them right."

 _But you_ are _no monster. You proved them wrong where I only ever managed to prove them right._

He doesn't say it. Just forces his head to nod and continues pacing.

He wonders if Steve would be proud.

It is a minute or two before Bruce once more breaks the silence.

"So… Assuming you're right about the— worthiness thing. Why didn't Thor do it before?"

Why does Thor do or fail to do anything?

"I assume he did not think of it."

"He's had a hammer for nine hundred-odd years that can pin down anyone and he... didn't think of it?"

Loki makes a vague gesture with one hand, and then winces as water splashes over the carpet.

"It was not always so. It used to just be _heavy_ ; even _I_ could lift it _._ It was only when Thor was exiled that the 'worthiness' enchantment was placed upon it." _Only Thor set it upon my chest mere hours after regaining his powers, so Thor must have thought of it, surely?_ "Then too," he adds, "It is possible Thor does not find you unworthy; I do not think he shares the Allfather's scorn for the mortal race." _At least, not anymore._ "And even if he had, it would have been unfair to obtain victory by those ends. If he could not defeat you fairly, it would have been cheating to end the fight thus."

"Cheating," Bruce echoes flatly.

Loki gives up.

"I am merely guessing, Bruce. I am not Thor. Maybe he simply _could_ not. If it truly bothers you, you can always ask him. I am sure he will look suitably sorry and have a flawless excuse at hand to present you with that absolves him of all blame."

Bruce tilts his head slightly to one side.

"Does he often do that?"

"Sometimes. When he can remember what he has done, or if it is severe enough. Otherwise he just looks noble and resigned and apologises for the fact that you are angry or upset, and asks that you forgive him for whatever part you seem to feel he played in it and stop doing whatever you are doing to inconvenience him so he can get on with his life."

_Too much. Too bitter._

_When did this become about you?_

He waits for Bruce to tell him he is being unfair. He knows he is, at least a little.

"I can imagine that would get old fairly fast," Bruce says instead, almost gently.

The vision of a tiny, compressed Bruce with hand-shaped bruises across his face, his chest, dances before him.

If the gentleness is pity, he supposes he can bear it. For now.

"It matters not. I had my methods of reminding him, and making him suitably miserable in turn."

Like taunting him, tormenting his friends and killing him, or trying to.

"You never tried just... telling him?"

"Sometimes. When we were younger."

"… What made you stop?"

"I grew up. My problems grew with me, and Thor stopped being able to fix them. It grew ever more humiliating begging him to try. I wanted to be seen as an equal, not merely as Thor's helpless, whining, irritating younger brother. I like to think it worked. Certainly Thor never tried to leave me behind the way he did Baldur."

"You found Baldur irritating?"

"He _was_ irritating."

Bruce snorts.

"He _was._ He was like," Loki searches blindly, "Like Oliver Twist, from the movie."

"Sweet, cute and a really good treble?"

"Overly virtuous and annoying," Loki snaps.

Why are they talking about this? They should not be talking about this.

SHIELD and Polt and safety are what they should be worrying about, not how well Baldur used to sing. He does not want to think about Baldur. Golden, beloved Baldur, who should never have turned, whose fault it _was_ for turning, and whose face had looked so _shocked_ when the dart had pierced through every protection and buried itself straight into his heart. Baldur who every creature could cry for but him. Why can he not focus? Why can he not think?

He can feel Bruce looking at him, like he wants to say something and isn't quite sure what. He doesn't care.

"I should see if Tony has destroyed the serum," Loki says, abruptly, "And ask if he or Thor know of anywhere safer than here to take you."

There is a heartbeat of silence. Then:

"You could," Bruce allows, "Or I could do it."

Loki hesitates. Swallows. Temptation wars within against pride.

If he leaves, he faces Thor.

If he does not, he will not have to but it will be a tacit acknowledgement that he does not _wish_ to.

_Fool. He already knows. He saw you run._

_That is why he offered._

"Might as well, actually," Bruce says, rising, "I'm not sure I'm doing much here but distracting you. Besides," a slightly self-deprecating smile, "I need to ask Thor why he didn't pin me down on the Helicarrier, and if he thinks he actually can now. See if I can get my share of guilty kicked-puppy looks too."

It isn't even a battle, in the end.

Gracefully, gratefully, Loki inclines his head.

"Very well. Do so. And... Bruce? Stay away from the windows."

"I'm not an idiot, Loki. I will."

OoOoOoOoO

Thor's suggestion, bluntly spoken, is to just blast the serum with Mjolnir to destroy it.

It's not a bad suggestion, Tony thinks. Assuming there's nothing magic-y about it which would make it resistant to being blown apart, and assuming that it is going to be sufficiently demolished by an influx of energy roughly the equivalent of a few dozen tank missiles. Assuming. But it's not like he has any better options, and being careful's never been what he's best at. He, for one, is prepared to take the risk. It's the size of a thumb joint, and that's _with_ the needle. How hard can it be?

"I'm just worried about its potency," Pepper says.

She's the only one against this move.

"Even small amounts were supposed to be lethal. If you blow up that thing, can you be sure that none of it will get out? Bruce is _one room away_."

Unfortunately, that is also a good point. Which is why Thor is frowning down at nothing, arms folded across his chest, and Tony's sipping coffee and wishing he came here often enough for Pepper to start stocking scotch. The dart is sitting on the table, between them.

"We've got to do something with it, Pepper. They're probably tracing it. _We_ did, and they've had a lot longer to practice it than us."

"You tracked the absence of radiation, not its presence."

"It's presence _registered_ though."

Thor clears his throat.

"We could inject it into me."

Tony eyes him, and wonders if suicidally self-sacrificing heroics run in the family.

"It's intended use was to be injected into someone," Thor persists, "Since that is so, why not use the fact I contain neither the secondary serum nor this mutant gene to our advantage?"

"Could work," Tony says, turning the thought over.

"Or it couldn't," Pepper says firmly. "For one thing, that would require firing it and we don't have a tranquilizer gun. And you are _not_ flying back there to get whatever they were planning to use. And for another, what if it had some side effect that did hurt you?"

Okay, so maybe it couldn't work.

Tony frowns at the evil little thing and wishes it was possible to destroy it with his eyes.

"It is a risk I am prepared to take. And I could retrieve the weapon," Thor says, apparently not yet convinced.

"So could I. Point is, it isn't a risk _we're_ prepared to take with one of the only two people who can fly if things go south, and even if we were it isn't safe. Unless you're more resistant to the venom or poison or whatever it is that hit Steve than him and Loki are, in which case, be my guest."

Thor's frown deepens.

"Thought so."

"I do not fear the weapons of the enemy, Stark."

"Good for you. I can't fly four people though, so unless you're sure we aren't going to exercise our flight vs fight instincts while you're out, I'd prefer it if you didn't go."

"I am not Heimdall. I do not know what our enemies plan for us."

Which is pretty much the point, but Tony resists the urge to crow.

Crowing takes energy and he's kind of short on energy right now.

Finally, Thor offers:

"Loki could hide it, if you trusted him with it. Ever has he been gifted at such tricks."

"We trust him," Tony says, automatically.

"How?" Pepper asks.

"Magic," Thor says simply.

Right. Magic. Because that's a thing.

But Pepper's nodding, apparently satisfied.

"He is watching Steve though..." she trails off.

"That is no matter," Thor says mildly. "One of us can take it to him."

True. Not Thor though.

Tony's just opening his mouth to say so when, just like that, the door to Pepper's bedroom is opening. He knows a brief moment where he's half rising and his stomach flips weirdly and he thinks, _Is Steve up already?_ And then Bruce is stepping through the door and closing it with a firm 'click' behind him. He seems to notice them all staring at him, because he shakes his head almost immediately.

"Not awake. Loki'll tell us if he does."

Right. That's—right.

Tony plants himself firmly back on the couch.

"Is Loki alright?" Pepper asks, "And are you?"

Bruce shrugs.

"I'm okay, aside from stress and the hand. Hard to say about Loki. He's worried, I think, and he looks like death warmed over, especially in your clothes, Tony. No offense. But he doesn't look as bad as he did in the Tower, so I think he's getting better."

"My clothes are wonderful," Tony says automatically.

Bruce snorts. He doesn't argue though. Possibly because he's wearing them himself.

"Actually... I had a question for you, Tony. You and Thor," Bruce begins.

Tony makes a sweeping gesture.

"Shoot."

"It's kind of dual, really. The question, that is. The first part is, do you know of anywhere safe from Polt I could hide in now, _before_ anything goes wrong? And secondly," Bruce turns to look at Thor, "Is it true that your hammer weighs enough to stop the Hulk?"

It's Thor who answers first, in the affirmative. But Thor got the easy question. Tony doesn't have a clue how to answer his.

He needs Clint. Needs someone on the inside, because short of 'hey, fly high to Fiji and hope none of Polt's agents are on vacation' he's got nothing.

Though actually, that plan has merit. He could use a trip to Fiji.

"Though it would be difficult," Thor is qualifying now, "Your Hulk is a powerful warrior, strong and agile, and I doubt he would stay still long enough for me to do so. But I believe that when Mjolnir was set upon his hand by chance when we fought, he could not shift her."

"Right. And the reason you didn't leave it there was...?"

"There was an inch of space between the handle and the floor," Thor supplies obligingly, "The Hulk was trapped, but he was pulling free on his own; it did not seem prudent to wait. But even had he not been, I would not have left it there. Such tactics would not have been fair."

Bruce closes his eyes, then opens them.

"Okay. Fair enough. But if I Hulked _now,_ for whatever reason, you could set it on me in time to stop me?"

"Possibly. But why would I? Your Hulk is a friend, even as you are."

Okay, so Tony might be warming up to Thor a bit. Just a bit.

"Sometimes. Sometimes, he's a friend," Bruce says, eyes haunted, "But other times he does what he did on the Helicarrier. It's nice, the sentiment, but I don't want to wake up naked and find that because of me, people are injured or dead. It's not— When I choose to change and there's something I can tear to pieces, he's better. I can control him, a bit. But that isn't now."

Thor still looks doubtful.

"Why do you not choose, then? Would that not solve your problem?"

"No, because there aren't any convenient Abominations and Chitauri around to smash."

"There are buildings. Mountains."

"Mountains I'm nowhere near, and buildings with people in them."

Thor looks like he's giving up.

He also looks like he's swallowed vinegar.

"... Very well. If you truly wish it, I shall do so."

Bruce cracks a smile.

"I do. And... Thanks, Thor."

And then he's turning to Tony, and Tony raises both hands in the traditional pose for surrender.

"Fiji?" he offers. "Tahiti?"

Bruce groans.

"Question: Can Loki do whatever he did to contact Clint last time again?"

"... Maybe. Why? You think it's worth asking?"

"If you don't want to fly in the super-cold, freezing atmosphere in circles, it's worth asking. Might even motivate SHIELD to get up and give Polt the proverbial kick in the ass, if Clint tells them, assuming this serum _is_ the reason they haven't been acting."

"And the serum?" Pepper asks.

"Give it to Loki," Tony says.

"And if for some reason my brother cannot hide or destroy it for us, I could keep it for you until I return to Asgard and get my father to destroy it there," Thor offers.

"No offense, but I'm not sure I trust your father with that stuff," Bruce says.

Thor's eyes flash.

"Seconded," Tony backs Bruce up, because, come on, _Odin_.

Besides, Bruce shouldn't be the only target if Thor loses his temper. Not that it looks like it'll come to that, quite; Thor seems to be wrestling himself back under control.

"My father is honourable."

Or not.

"I'll accept that you think so," Bruce says, carefully neutral. "But accidents happen to everyone, even to people who are honourable, and I'd prefer to know where it is and see the stuff destroyed myself. Paranoia, and all that. It's not just me that will kill if it gets out."

"He would not allow it to escape. He has the Odinforce, and our vaults—"

But here Thor stops, frowning.

"Very well," he concedes, after a moment or two, "Perhaps you are right to have reservations about our security."

Tony wonders what the story is there.

_Not relevant. Don't ask._

There's a moment of silence, where Pepper offers to take the dart to Loki, and where Bruce tells her it's fine because he's handling it with a couple of tissues and even if he wasn't, only the very vulnerable were going to be killed by small doses. It's true, probably. It doesn't stop Tony from feeling kind of relieved when Bruce doesn't instantly do anything dramatic like collapsing to the ground or frothing at the mouth or screaming.

"Shall I accompany you?" Thor says, too hopefully, as Bruce retreats with it back towards the bedroom.

"No. But thanks."

_Good man._

And then Bruce is gone.

Thor stares wistfully at the closed door.

_Don't ask._

"So," Tony starts, loud in the sudden silence, "What happened with your dad's vault?"

OoOoOoOoO

Loki is still pacing when Bruce returns.

He is not surprised when the mortal does so. He has not been listening—not quite. His own thoughts and Steve have distracted him enough from that. But Bruce did not close the door fully behind him and Thor's voice caries well and a small, treacherous part of him cannot stop himself from _hearing_.

"You were right. I can't blame him," Bruce says, apropos of nothing.

Loki sends him a slightly crooked smile.

"Not that it makes a huge difference, since I wasn't especially trying... How much did you hear?"

"Enough. Is that the serum?"

A rhetorical question, but Bruce nods anyway.

"Thor said you might be able to hide it? Tony isn't sure how to properly destroy it."

He can, of course. Hiding things is easy, or it had been. A simple case of opening a dimensional pocket, reaching in and putting the thing away. A part of him wonders, even as he nods, how much this will hurt. He will have to conceal it, of course. His stomach turns, vaguely nauseous, and the weakness burns him.

Wordlessly, he extends his hand.

"We were also wondering if you could contact Clint again."

"I am capable, certainly. I doubt he will be pleased to see me."

The dart feels cold in his hand, and cruel.

Such a small thing, to hold the power to end an entire race.

"He will be when he hears you've got the serum," Bruce says with confidence. Maybe even accurately, though Loki doubts it. _He_ was never pleased on Midgard knowing the scepter forged a permanent link between the Other and him. "We were also hoping he might know of somewhere safe."

"I will ask him," he promises.

He reaches for his magic, to hide the serum.

And then he must bite back the pathetic whine that threatens to escape him as the too-familiar pain crashes through him.

He blinks, and the world blurs before his eyes. Odd.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Loki says flatly.

A moment later, things slide back into focus.

Bruce is hovering next to him, brow furrowed.

When did he move?

"The serum is safe," Loki says automatically, "I have just sent it into storage. I used to do it with anything I had no wish to lose. It was the only place I could be sure I would never forget and where no one else would find it."

"I'm worried about you, not the serum," Bruce says bluntly. "Well, maybe a little bit about the serum. But something triggered that."

He could play dumb and pretend he does not know what Bruce means. He _could,_ but he doubts that will serve. 'I am fine' is a lie he has used too many times today.

"Nothing triggers them," he lies smoothly, instead, "At least, nothing I am aware of. They have been happening periodically ever since my collar was cut. I expect they will wear off after an hour or two of rest, and in the meantime there is nothing I can do about them." _Except not do magic._ He offers Bruce his most sincere, most charming smile. "They will pass, eventually. Do not concern yourself with them."

Bruce doesn't look like someone who isn't concerning himself with them.

Irritation spikes inside.

"I said do not concern yourself with them," he says more sharply.

"It's your magic, isn't it?" Bruce says slowly, "That's why you didn't heal your side until Thor came."

Loki glares at him, furious and more furious that he is feeling so.

He feels... open, somehow. Exposed.

"My magic is _fine_ ," he hisses.

"No, it's not. Why didn't you say something?"

Because Bruce called him brave, and he does not wish to lose his respect. Because it is a weakness, and admitting ones weaknesses is not wise. Because he is in the habit of lying and he cannot stop. Because magic is what sets him apart from all the other people who can spy and lie and fight and even now he isn't sure what will happen to him when he is no longer of _use._

 _But they are your friends_ , something whispers. _They care. You would have told Steve._

But would he?

No, he thinks. No. Not even Steve. Not until the supersoldier had actually asked. He rips his gaze from Bruce's and glares at the carpet because it is there and it exists and it has no eyes with which to stare back at him.

"I would contact Barton," he says flatly.

Silence. Then:

"We've got Clint's number. Tony can call him."

"If he had wanted to risk that, he would not have asked you to ask _me_."

"If he'd known using magic hurt you, I don't think he would have."

"Then see to it that he does not know."

" _Loki_ ," Bruce groans.

Loki changes tactics. Lifting his gaze, he glares at the mortal.

"I know he would not, Bruce. I know you would not." _Now._ "I also happen to know that using my magic now is like strengthening an atrophied muscle." And it _is_ just that. Of course it is. There are no alternatives he will allow himself to consider. "Just because it hurts _now_ does not mean it _always_ will. And I will not sacrifice _centuries_ of work just because I was too weak to try once more to wield it. Will you never use that hand again because if it is _stiff_ once it is healed?"

Bruce frowns.

"… I guess—I mean, of course I will."

"Of course," Loki agrees, mercilessly pleasant.

"It's just… You seem to have taken a team's worth of hits for us in the last three days. You and Steve. It doesn't feel fair. And I didn't even offer you Aspirin," Bruce finishes, somewhat obscurely.

"Polt isn't fair," Loki says, shrugging stiffly.

And Bruce still looks guilty, so he adds:

"I am not a child. Had I felt your sedatives would affect me, I would have asked for them. I knew they were there. But... thank you. For the sentiment."

It isn't a dismissal—not quite. Only he doesn't know what to _do_ when people feel bad that he has been hurt. Has never known, really. He doesn't know quite how to say that he is not selfless and they do not _need_ to because it is just logic, surely, that those who can best survive the hits should take them for those who will survive them worse and whom they actually care for. That he would not take a dagger to the side for the Hulk or for Thor, even when he had not hated him, but would for Pepper or Bruce.

They're quiet for a moment. Then:

"I should speak with Barton."

Bruce doesn't reply. Just keeps looking unhappy, and so Loki ignores him. Setting his glass on the table, he seats himself, partly twisted, on the edge of Steve's bed, legs dangling off the sides and back propped up against the wall. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but no more uncomfortable then what will follow, and decidedly less humiliating then waking up, boneless, to find himself sprawled across the floor. He wonders if Bruce would try to lift him, if that happened. Wonders, moments later, if with one hand he physically could. But it doesn't matter. Won't, now.

Closing his eyes, he draws his magic to him.

Once more, he hurts.

Once more, he grits his teeth and tries his best to _ignore_ it.

And then the blue thread that led him last time to Barton opens up before him and he allows himself to fall.

And fall.

Until finally, finally, he stops.

He stops, and it is _addictive,_ this lack of pain that follows when he has landed and his mind is no longer confined inside his body.

His weakness remains, true, and his abandoned body is defenseless as a child, but he does not _hurt._ For a moment, only this matters and he must fight the temptation to just... keep his eyes closed. To savour the sensation. He knows he cannot, of course. He needs this to be done because he needs to get back. And yet he _wants._ And then it doesn't matter what he wants because he hears the sudden click of weaponry, and instinctively he is wrenching his eyes open because what if Barton is not alone and they shatter this projection before it can _speak?_ What if—

Barton has an arrow pointed at his chest. A reflexive action, he hopes, since the mortal saw no need to shoot him last time.

He smiles anyway, ghastly thin, because why not?

Barton scowls at him.

" _Again?_ Are you planning on making a habit of this? Because it's creepy on a number of levels if you're going to make a habit of this."

"Almost, Barton, you tempt me."

"The fuck I do," Barton retorts, eyes narrowing. "You still look like shit, by the way."

"Thank you. I wonder, what _would_ I do without your so-professional evaluations?"

"Use a mirror, probably. Is there a reason you're wearing Tony's clothes? I can tell you now they don't suit you."

"They were clean and they were dry. Function, not aesthetics, was my priority when I chose them."

"Uh huh. And you can't just," a vague hand-wave, " _magic_ yourself up some leather."

"Tony's clothing is more comfortable," Loki lies flatly.

"… That is slightly disturbing. Just so you know."

"More or less so than the fact that _you,_ apparently, know them well enough to recognise them all by sight?"

"Buddy, it's two inches short and your shirt has _'Black Sabbath'_ blazoned across the front."

Loki pauses, momentarily thrown, because _buddy?_

And then there is the sound of a cleared throat, and his brain stalls somewhere between _not alone_ and _why didn't you tell me?_ and he whirls about to see Romanoff, scuffed and dirty and leaning against a wall, eyes resting on Barton with a look that might be fond amusement. And then, moments later, the human standing _behind_ her, eye narrowed, dark face blank save for one vein in his left temple which violently, rapidly, throbs.

Loki stares at Fury.

Fury stares back. Then:

"Would somebody," Fury says, with awful politeness, "Care to explain to me _what the hell_ is going on here?"


	38. Fury

For one moment, Loki wants to lie. About how much he knows, about how well he knows it. About _everything_.

It is irrational, he knows; a side-effect of keeping too many secrets for far too long. Fury was always supposed to know. Only _he_ wasn't supposed to have to tell him because Hill was supposed to do that for him. Hill, and probably Romanoff. Which begs the question of _why_ the director is currently glaring at him and resting his hand upon his gun. Lips thinning, Loki drags his eyes away from him, to Romanoff.

"How much does he know?"

"Enough. He knows about Polt, the serum and Banner."

"But not about me."

It's not a guess. It's certainly not a question, but Romanoff shrugs anyway.

"We prioritized. We only came down here ten minutes ago."

"You didn't believe informing me that you are apparently now working with a wanted fugitive who declared war on earth four months ago was a _priority?"_ Fury demands.

"Not really. Is it going to be a problem?"

"It might be," Fury says.

Loki closes his eyes and opens them again, and wills himself to be patient.

It is harder than it should be. He blames Fury. Blames the room that is too small and so like so many _other_ rooms owned by SHIELD. Blames the memories it stirs that grate at him, striking at what control he has left like a million needles of molten steel. He remembers his defeat. Remembers being cast into a cold room with bare walls like this by Thor to _wait_. Remembers Odin's coming, and Thor... not. The Allfather's disappointment. His _disgust._ Remembers trying to stand, to sneer, to _listen_ , as Odin pronounced his sentence and Fury watched, face blank as it is blank now, and then not standing because he couldn't think, couldn't _breathe_ past the metal so suddenly about his throat and then— hands. Pain. Blank spots, where memory should be. Mirrors. So many mirrors.

_Don't think don't think don't think—_

"And just when _were_ you planning to tell him?" he snaps.

"When he'd acted on your information and Stark's, and we had time to waste proving we weren't lying or in need of cognitive recalibration."

Logical, he supposes, if inconvenient.

He glares at her anyway, just because.

"Speaking of priorities, sir," Barton is saying now, "Since it's come up, why didn't _you_ think the fact that the bastard was being punished _here_ and not in Asgard was something _we_ needed to be aware of?"

Something flickers in Fury's eye.

_Don't think don't remember—_

"It was beyond your security clearance level. Beyond _both_ your security clearance levels."

"But not Hill's."

Fury's eye darkens.

"Tasha's a ten. I know for a fact Hill's only nine. Why didn't she know?"

"I don't believe _—_ "

Loki takes a step towards Romanoff. A calculated move, and one that succeeds in drawing Fury's attention. And also, apparently, his handgun.

He raises both hands and spreads them out harmlessly before his chest.

Fury's eye narrows.

"And just what do you think you're doing?"

It says something, Loki thinks, of his battered and miserable state that the mortal truly thinks his weapon might harm him. Or is it just the lack of armour, and the bare feet? He doesn't know. Doesn't know that he wants to know, though Barton would probably be only too pleased to tell him.

"I was planning," Loki says sweetly, "To tell Romanoff that we have successfully retrieved the serum, and are currently searching for a place that is safe for Banner to hide in, in case Polt has traced us to where we are. And, on the subject of Polt, that the shape-shifters in his service have abnormal regeneration rates and seem to require the complete destruction of some vital organ— their brain, perhaps, or their hearts— to succeed in killing them. I meant no threat. It was merely that I found your discussion with Barton so riveting, you see— enthralling, even— that I did not wish to interrupt it with such _trivialities_ as these."

Romanoff's lips twitch appreciatively.

Abruptly, Fury lowers his gun.

"... _You_ have the serum," he says flatly.

"Well, not me personally," Loki lies, "But Tony does. It will not take him long to destroy it, I think. He is working on that even now."

The suspicion is still radiating from Fury, but the outright hostility is fading. A small step, true, but a step in the right direction.

"Wait, what? _How?"_ Barton demands.

To tell or not to tell?

"Is this place secure?" Loki says, hesitating.

"It's not bugged, if that's what you mean," Romanoff says.

Her face and her eyes say it is true, or at least that she wants him to think it is. It is... good enough, he supposes.

"Thor told us."

"Thor? As in, your brother Thor?"

_He is not my brother._

"Are there _two_ Thors?" Loki snaps.

"Could be," Barton says, unapologetically.

Loki glares at him too.

"How did he know?" Romanoff asks, and then, "How did he _get_ here?"

"Heimdall, and Odin. Apparently, Steve called for him."

"And you're _sure_ it's the real one?" Barton says.

"The serum or Thor?"

"The _serum_."

Loki flushes slightly.

"Oh. Yes."

"I assume you have some form of proof?" Fury bites out.

"It was where Thor said it would be. It also emits radiation at a frequency Tony and Bruce assure me is significant, and it was heavily guarded both by shape-shifters and by normal humans. And they were armed with the Chitauri's venom, and prepared to use it to shoot Steve. The combination was enough."

Barton swears.

"Steve will be fine," Loki adds, "He is unconscious just now, that is all."

Barton swears again. Even Fury looks displeased now. Loki wonders if the mortal is fond of Steve.

Probably. Steve seems to have that effect on people.

Loki decides not to tell them he punched him.

"We were hoping," he says, glancing at Fury, "That now that the serum has been dealt with, SHIELD might act to stop Polt and his minions. Always assuming that this _has_ been what has been stopping you, and Polt's actions are not, in fact, condoned."

Far too bland, but it is better than too much of anything else.

Fury is frowning now.

"We don't condone them," he says at last. "Arnold Polt is about as condoned as _you_ are. Maybe less."

_Don't think don't remember—_

"Mm. Then I may tell Tony that you will act now?"

"You may."

"What about the temporary directorial override?" Romanoff asks.

"If we've got the serum, I can get the council to revoke it," Fury says coolly, "Polt was only ever put in charge to draw it out."

"Clever of you," Loki allows.

"Necessary," Fury corrects him.

"Indeed. And can I assume you have a method for testing for and dealing with their shape-shifters?"

"You can."

Loki waits, face a mask of polite expectancy.

Fury glowers at him.

"Explosives," Romanoff says, eventually. "And retinal scans. Evidence suggests they don't do too well in replicating the human eye in 3D when all they've seen is its surface."

Loki considers that. It _might_ work, certainly. If they truly struggle with that, than for anyone with a retinal scan already recorded it might work, and that should be most of SHIELD's forces. And Tony's repulsors are mostly heat, so a powerful enough explosion, targeted properly, will probably be effective. And Polt cannot have _that_ many in his service, surely? Not when if he succeeds they will probably die. They must _know_ that.

"I wish you luck, in dealing with them."

Fury doesn't look like he appreciates the sentiment.

Loki wonders, fleetingly, how many of his friends he killed. More than Coulson, certainly.

"... Do you know of somewhere safe to which Thor can fly Bruce? Preferably somewhere far from any cities?"

"You realise we will be verifying this with Stark afterwards, don't you?"

"Unwise, if Polt can trace your calls. But it is your choice. I cannot stop you."

Fury's expression sours.

Loki folds his hands neatly behind his back, stares at nothing, and waits for Fury to decide if, at least for now, he can be trusted.

Apparently, he can be.

The place Fury describes is a small house on a small island somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean in the middle of nowhere. He gives him its geographical co-ordinates. Possibly Thor knows how to get there, but Loki suspects Tony will have to provide him with a map for it. Or an earpiece, with Jarvis for directions. In any case, there is nothing left to say. No reason to linger. No reason not to return, and warn them all that SHIELD is soon going to act. And yet...

And yet he lingers, posture careless.

"Thor knows nothing of what happened to me here," he says lightly, to a crack in the wall. "I have informed him that I was well treated by SHIELD."

Romanoff tilts her head to one side.

"Why?" she asks.

_Because I will not have his pity, or his contempt._

_Because I am a coward and I cannot speak of it, even now._

_Because, blind as it is, he cares. And if he knows he will blame himself for all of it._

"Because I do not wish him to know. SHIELD is a useful resource and I have no wish for him to break it. He would, if he knew."

"And you aren't planning on using that to get revenge?" Fury asks sceptically.

Loki turns just enough to meet the mortal's gaze.

"Have I cause to seek revenge against all of SHIELD, director?"

Something flickers across Fury's face, gone before he can understand it.

"Does _that_ matter?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," Loki says, "But as I said, director, SHIELD is useful. Until I no longer have a use for you, you are safe."

That is the way the world works, is it not? And anyway, revenge is illegal here. Regardless of what he _wishes_ to do, it will be Tony or Steve who make sure those responsible for all of this are legally punished. Loki has no intention of subjecting himself to the mortal courts, to grovel there while his humiliation is made known to all who attend it and whine to them that the mortals he so remorselessly slaughtered dared to hurt him back. If they are not punished without that, than he will find a way to induce them to attack him or someone else again and so make it fine to slaughter them in retaliation, that is all.

He will not lose his friends over this.

"I suggest, if you share my opinion on SHIELD's usefulness, you do not tell Thor either."

Barton is looking at him strangely.

Fleetingly, Loki wonders why.

But it doesn't matter. He has asked that they do not tell, and given them a reason for why it will benefit them to listen. He can do nothing more.

These are his allies, not his friends. He will not lower himself to beg them for this.

"Is there anything else I should know or do, or that you would advise, before I leave?"

"Prioritize Dr. Banner's removal," Fury says, at last.

"And _don't_ tell anyone where you are, after this," Romanoff says. "Not even us."

Loki inclines his head.

"Make sure Polt doesn't kill you all?" Barton offers.

Wholly desirable, and utterly useless. And yet, he feels his mouth tugging into a reluctant smile.

"I will try."

OoOoOoOoO

"So, why now?" Tony asks.

It's a non-sequitur and predictably, Thor frowns in confusion.

"Why'd you turn up now, as opposed to before Steve called you?" Tony elaborates.

It's not that he blames Thor, or thinks he should have. Loki aside, SHIELD's issues aren't the responsibility of anyone but earth. But still, Thor has showed up, so he obviously cares to _some_ extent, and Tony is bored enough waiting just now that he can make the time for answers. He's already fixed his pauldron. Well, bent it back down, anyway. Perfect it is not, but it's the best he can do inside Pepper's disappointingly underequipped apartment.

"I am afraid I did not know until he did that you were in need. I have not been to Heimdall to ask of this realm for some time."

"Earth struggling to compare to the Land of the Space Vikings?"

Thor laughs.

"Midgard compares well, my friend, for variety if nothing else. No, I have merely been absent from the city for a few months, that is all."

"Did you know Loki was here?" Pepper says.

"Of course. When I realised I had not taken my brother home, I confronted father. He told me everything."

"Oh?" Tony says, "And just what _did_ he tell you?"

"That his punishment would echo mine. He was to be exiled here without his magic until such a time that father felt he had proved himself worthy, and in the meantime, SHIELD would treat him in a manner befitting of your justice here. Father deemed that our own had failed too many times in the past to be worth trying again, and had he chosen simple execution Hela would have treated him as an honoured guest, and released him."

"SHIELD really isn't a shining beacon of American Justice," Tony feels impelled to point out.

"... Perhaps," Thor allows, "But it turned out for the best, did it not? My brother is better, now. Or at least, better than he was before," Thor corrects himself.

"Yeah. I guess," Tony says lamely, and wonders just how badly Thor's going to maim him if he ever learns the truth.

Pepper's hands are very white where they're clasped in her lap.

"What did you mean by past justice?" she says, with forced calm.

"Punishments, for the most part," Thor admits, "My brother often broke our laws; sometimes by miscalculation or through malice; other times, I think, merely to see if he _could._ But I would prefer not to speak of them. They were long ago, and too often they were dealt with in anger."

"Can't say I disagree with you there. Assuming his punishments were even close to what they were in the myths."

Thor has the grace to wince.

"Selvig showed me those stories. They are inaccurate, but not as much so as I would like.

"So, the one about you getting dressed up as a bride to get your hammer back. Did that one happen?" Tony asks, suddenly curious.

Thor reddens slightly, and says, more forcefully.

"I would prefer not to speak of it."

True then. Tony snickers.

"It is no laughing matter," Thor protests.

"You in a dress will never not be a laughing matter," Tony counters. "What color was it?"

 _"Tony,"_ Pepper groans. "I'm so sorry, Thor."

"No, do not apologise, Lady Pepper," Thor says, "In truth, I should be used to it by now. Once, stories of that adventure were outlandish enough to be a universal jest and even when they were not my brother never tired of summoning his illusions to relive the event. Especially when he was drunk."

"Public or private? I'm reserving my sympathy here."

"Private, naturally. He would not have humiliated me so in public."

"Sympathy withheld."

Thor grins a bit, eyes lost in memory.

"You know," Tony says, eying him, "I wouldn't really have pegged you for the cloak and dagger type."

Thor raises an eyebrow.

"Tricks. Disguises. Not smashing. You know, that sort of thing."

"We smashed," Thor assures him, "Once I had Mjolnir back, we smashed the Jotnar there in great abundance."

Pepper rises abruptly.

"I'm going to get another coffee."

Tony knows the feeling.

"But not before," he says, "Mjolnir can't be the only weapon you're capable of wielding."

"That is true," Thor allows. "It was Loki's idea."

"But you went along with it."

Thor shrugs.

"Why not? Father said it was my mess to fix, and it is not as though they were—" Thor stops abruptly, frowning.

"Were what?"

"It does not matter," Thor says, still frowning, "Only... I believe I may owe my brother a second apology. For this and... other things."

Tony stares at him blankly, but Thor doesn't elaborate.

Just keeps staring off at the closed doorway, suddenly abstracted.

From the kitchen, there's the clinking of cups, spoons and the soft creaking as the fridge door opens and is shut again.

"How did you know it wasn't him in your dad's cells? Loki, that is. I'm guessing Odin didn't tell you?"

"He did not," Thor says.

If he finds anything odd in the subject change, it doesn't show. But maybe he's just relieved they're not talking anymore about dresses.

"No, I knew because he called me his brother after his muzzle was removed. My brother... no longer uses that title. But even if he had not, I would have known. I have fought beside my brother for over eight centuries in battle, and I _know_ that Loki has courage. He has borne whippings in silence many times, and taken blows deep enough to reach the bone and still _laughed_ at those who dealt them. He is no coward, to cry out or weep at the fall of a few lashes, nor weak enough to beg for company after a mere handful of days being left alone in his cell."

"You don't say," Tony says weakly.

He feels sick.

He's felt sick before, true, when Loki talked about Asgardian justice, but to hear the passing scorn in Thor's voice when he describes someone crying and screaming while being whipped, to hear the careless dismissal of days in solitary confinement, is to understand _why_ Loki is so defensive whenever he's hurt. Why he always looks so _shocked_ whenever he doesn't manage to hide it and they still care. And he'd known, has always known, that Loki's level of pride was kind of screwed up but he'd thought it was more unique. A sort of specifically Loki thing, the result of months of being screwed over in Asgard and the void. He thinks now it isn't. Thinks, watching Thor, that maybe it's something everyone there has. Worse, is just _expected_ to have. He wonders if Thor just _expects_ himself to bear torture in silence too. Wonders if he ever has. Wonders just how young it was that the training for that started.

In the kitchen, Pepper has raised her hand to her mouth, and her face is white.

"Who... who was it in there?"

"A guard. A volunteer, enchanted to act as my father wanted and paid well in advance. Father himself disguised him."

Tony feels sorry for every guard in Asgard.

"Being _whipped_?" Pepper says, horrified.

"Well, yes," Thor says, blankly, "But not often. Only enough to keep up the pretence that father is punishing him back home."

There's an awkward silence.

"He did volunteer for it," Thor says again, like he is trying to work out what the problem is here. "And Fandral told me mother visits him often."

"Bet that makes him feel loads better," Tony mutters.

"What?" Thor says.

"Nothing."

Silence, for another while. Pepper is frowning at nothing, and Thor is back to staring at the bedroom door. Tony taps his fingers on the side of his mug restlessly. Dimly, he's beginning to understand just why Loki might be so obsessed with hiding the fact that he needed help, that he _asked_ for help, from Thor.

"What'd they do to Loki in the void?" he says abruptly.

Thor's face closes.

"Has he truly told you nothing?"

"Essentially. 'Not kind', he termed it, from memory. That was about it."

"He is not lying," Thor says, frowning.

"Tasha said he told her that what happened was a fair price for getting rescued."

"He is _wrong_."

"Yeah. Probably... " Almost certainly, knowing Loki _._ "Why didn't you mention it? When you told us about the army?"

"Because I did not _know_ ," Thor says, eyes haunted, "You must understand that I _never_ would have spoken as I did, had I not believed that he was conquering this realm solely to satisfy his rage against me. I assumed that he had found allies in his exile for whom he had chosen to betray Asgard. To betray _me._ I thought he possessed the magic to walk the branches of Yggdrasil, and had simply decided not to return to us. That he had ignored the grief every one of us felt at his loss merely to slake his thirst for power, and for _vengeance_. I was so _angry._ I thought—," Thor breaks off, "It matters little what I thought. I was wrong. Wrong, and a fool, and had I but taken five minutes to ask Heimdall ere I left what reason he had to muster an army here, I would have known better."

Pepper makes a noise that sounds sympathetic.

"It's not your fault, Thor."

Thor makes an impatient gesture.

"So... what did happen?" Tony says.

Thor hesitates, eyes clouded with pain, and for a moment he wonders if the demigod won't say. But he is speaking.

"Heimdall said... He told me Loki was mad, when they found him. Mad, starving and frozen. He had forgotten how to speak. They taught him to scream first. Then, to listen and to obey. When he could understand once more, they asked him questions: How had he lived through the void? Where had he come from? Did he know where Midgard was? Could he _get_ to it. Always, they were interested in this realm. How to get here, how well it was defended, how easy it would be to take the tesseract from it. The punishment for not answering was pain; the reward, sleep. Heimdall said they used to play strange, shrieking melodies or cut him with claws dipped in their venom to keep him awake unless his answers pleased them. They did not please them often."

Thor's voice is flat and factual.

Tony feels a cold horror sweeping through him.

"It had been centuries since last we visited this realm. He knew enough from visiting me during my exile to tell them a little, but no more than that. He tried anyway. Tried, when he could not answer, to satisfy them instead with lies. Heimdall said his spirit pleased them enough to offer him a choice. To come to this realm, to retrieve the tesseract for them and be free of them, or to be cast out once more, back into the void. They did not hate him, they said, but if he was useless what point was there in wasting their food and their shelter in keeping him? What point in risking him telling their enemies of them or trying to take the tesseract for himself first?"

"That's—," Tony chokes, hand clenching.

He can almost see Loki now, the strange smile and the shuttered eyes and, ' _My allies were not kind'._

"Yes," Thor says bleakly. "Apparently, he did not take long to decide. Or to force them to help him win this realm, once he was free of them."

"Tough little bastard, isn't he?" Tony says, eventually.

"He is," Thor agrees.

Pepper's returning now, coffee in hand.

She seats herself next to Thor.

"It's not your fault," she says again, more forcefully.

"Is it not? Had I but asked— But I never did. And then, within two days of his theft of the tesseract, I returned for him," Thor says, lip curling. "I returned, speaking of brotherhood. Of mourning, and the fact that I missed him. I cannot blame him for hating me, then and now. How empty my words must have seemed to him, when my first act after seeing him was to demand the tesseract mere moments after I had stolen him from your vessel and cast him on his back to the ground."

Tony is silent.

He feels for Thor. He feels for Loki. Hell, he feels for Heimdall, stuck seeing that with no one bothering to ask.

"Wait, why didn't Heimdall just tell you anyway?" Tony demands.

"He was forbidden to do so. Odin told me that he felt it would be best if none of us knew the truth, to save us the guilt of failing to rescue him. He had not the strength to send anyone beyond the known realms, or take them back. That burden is one he bore alone."

Bore alone his _ass._

"I do not know why he did not allow Heimdall to tell me later. I can only assume they thought I no longer cared."

"Did you?"

"How could I _not_ care?" Thor demands, "He is my _brother_. I thought I would have time once we returned to Asgard, once I had _stopped_ him, to reason with him properly. I thought that once he was returned to us all would somehow make sense. And now," Thor says unhappily, "Now, you have seen him. He refuses even to call me 'Thor'. I am 'Odinson' when he deigns to address me by a name at all. And I do not know what to do to _fix_ it. I assumed that he must have always wanted the Throne of Asgard. I assumed he had waited like a _coward_ until I could do nothing to defend myself against him before acting to destroy me and my friends, and even then had not the courage to own his actions but used my mother and my father as a shield. I never asked _why_ he might be so suddenly desperate to prove himself, or what part of the guilt lay with me, that the moment he knew he was not my brother by blood he assumed I would immediately turn against him. And then, after the void, I assumed he had told no one that he lived by choice, and that _he_ was the one who had offered them a way to the tesseract and so made this realm their target. I assumed—And _none_ of it was right. I was not there when he needed me, and I cannot fix it because he refuses to openly hate me. There are only polite deflections that I cannot shatter and a _look_ he has that says he would like someone to hug him but will stab me if I try. I have tried to ignore it, to treat him as though nothing has changed, and it is not working. I begin to fear perhaps it never will. I do not know how to _fix_ this."

It's like watching a kicked puppy. Even Thor's _hands_ are radiating bewildered misery.

"If it helps, I'm pretty sure the fact that you were fairly openly anti-frost-giant for a millennia or so is also a factor in the hate."

Pepper shoots him a ' _not helping'_ look.

"I have told him I no longer despise their kind."

"Okay. That's probably a step forward. I'm also eighty-six percent sure he does still care about you. I mean, when he talked about you, it always sounded like he missed you. And he definitely called you Thor."

Thor looks wistful.

"You think he can forgive me, then?"

_Maybe? If you were apologizing for remotely the right thing._

But then, if Thor's right, maybe this is something that needs forgiving too.

And if it's not... well. Loki has to know he _would_ be sorry. That has to factor in somewhere, right?

"Sure of it," Tony says.

Thor smiles a bit, before looking glum again. Tony gives up.

"To messed up families," he says, raising his coffee, and drinks.

OoOoOoOoO

"Fury was there," Loki says, when the room stops blurring.

Everything hurts, and his hands are shaking again. Lovely.

He can hear Thor talking to Tony and Pepper, in the other room. Can hear his voice, low and serious, and wonders what it is that he is saying. Wonders—

"He was?" Bruce says, sounding concerned.

It should be concern about the plan, but Loki suspects that it is for him. He would mind, but his head aches too much just now to truly care.

"Amusing, isn't it? But he was. He didn't shoot me. I think, perhaps, he may even come to tolerate me, eventually. I wonder if the clothing helped."

"Did he know? About your— Could he have stopped it?"

Loki shrugs.

Thor is sounding unhappy.

Why is he unhappy?

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do not think I asked."

"Why not?"

"Because I am currently his ally and until I can afford to not be I do not _wish_ to know. And anyway, I was busy discussing more important matters. Tell me, Bruce, how do you feel about—"

Loki stiffens, suddenly, every sense screaming a silent warning.

"About...?"

He lurches to his feet, drunkenly reaching for— what?

Bruce's arm, and Steve's, and his hands are closing about them like a vice.

"Get on the floor."

"Loki, what is it?"

Loki doesn't answer. Doesn't have _time_ to answer, because he's on his knees, dragging Bruce down with him, as above them something small and blunt slams almost soundlessly through the walls, passing through the air mere inches from where Bruce's chest had been. Bruce's arm freezes beneath his, and he can feel the pulse there fluttering wildly.

Loki swears, fluently, in dwarven.

"Get to Thor," he hisses.

Two more bullets slam through the walls above them.

 _Do not lose control, Bruce, don't lose control_ _please do not lose control—_

"Get to _Thor._ "

" _How_?" Bruce demands.

"Run. Crawl. Does it matter? Just—"

And then the window is shattering and a small, round, silver ball rolls innocently into the corner.

They are out of time.

Loki knows it, feels it, and he is reaching for the threads of magic before he even _begins_ to ask himself if he has the strength for this. And even when he does think of it, the thought is fleeting, lost in the jumbled mess of rage and fear and _need_ that churns inside. And then he is moving and it is _working_ and the world wrenches from beneath him, and he is flying or maybe falling and he _should not have done this_ because he's taking them somewhere and he doesn't know _where,_ and it is as though his tongue and eyes are melting while a white-hot knife inside him tears everything apart.

One moment, everything lasts. And then they are gone.

Behind them, the room explodes into molten light.

OoOoOoOoO

Thor's on his feet and summoning Mjolnir seconds after they hear the glass shatter.

Tony's before him because he hasn't got a weapon to delay him, and he's about to open the door when Jarvis reports spiking heat levels and incoming force waves from the other side. He's got just time enough to blast himself backwards because _Pepper is here_ and she's the only one who isn't protected by anything and won't get up if anything goes wrong before the explosion throws him sprawling across the room. The heat sears his shoulder, where it's exposed, and later he'll probably feel that but not now.

Now, he's firing up his repulsors to get up from the crumpled mess that used to be the sink because the wall's gone, the roof is partly gone, the sprinklers are going off and there's screaming now from above and below and—

The couch shifts, where it's been flipped one-eighty, and it's Thor.

Thor, not even a bit singed, which Tony might resent him for only he's holding an unconscious, bruised, but definitely _alive_ Pepper Potts safely wrapped inside his cape. He's not shaking with anything and his hands are absolutely steady and Thor, sensibly, does not even hesitate before passing Pepper across. And then he's scanning for where that came from and nothing's coming up. Why isn't anything coming up? This is what Jarvis' cameras are _there_ for.

"Loki!" Thor shouts. " _Bruce!"_

No answer.

No life forms registering on the HUD either.

They must have, what, jumped? They can't have been incinerated. Not Bruce.

_Please don't be them who screamed._

"Thor, we need to—"

"I need do _nothing,_ Tony."

' _Sir, another grenade is incoming._ '

"Why didn't you do that for the _first_ one?"

' _They are firing from a blind spot, and I am afraid the walls interfere with my scanning protocols.'_

Damn the walls.

"Thor, we need to leave."

"Then leave," Thor says.

"Thor, that room is empty. They're gone. Most of it is gone. The people upstairs need help getting out."

Still incoming.

Tony swears.

"You know what, if you want to stay here, stay here. But at least take this for me. Keep in contact. Try not to get blown up, okay?"

He doesn't wait for the reply. Doesn't even wait to see if Thor catches the earpiece he tosses him. Instead he focuses on blasting upwards and flying and on the little red blip on the radar that's moving towards _them_ , and then he's out the hole where the window was flying high because it's better than low and he has no idea where is safe. Behind him, the room explodes again.

"You okay Thor?"

Static. Static's better than nothing, though.

"Thor."

Why didn't he give one of these to Bruce and Loki when he had the chance?

" _Thor_."

"I am well," Thor says, through static. "They are gone."

"I told you that. Didn't you hear me tell you that?"

Silence. Probably frowning silence.

"So, where are they? Streets below? Different floor? Talk to me."

"Neither. I believe they have teleported, but I could be wrong. Whatever they have done, it is my brother's work. What is left reeks of his magic."

Magic reeks?

"So they're going to be okay, right?"

"I know not. That depends upon _where_ he has taken them. He was not well and our enemy has eyes everywhere."

"Not reassuring right now."

There's shouting from the other end, and maybe crying. Then:

"I am helping those trapped upstairs now. Do you know where they are striking from? This task would be easier if I could resolve that threat."

"Working on it."

He needs to plan. Needs somewhere safe to put Pepper to fly back and help. Needs—

"Jarvis? Call Clint. Now. And scan for where those things are coming from."

"Yes, sir."

Seconds later, his own face is flashing before him, smiling. Tony keeps flying.

_Come on. Don't be compromised, don't be dead. Take the call._

"Tony," Clint's voice says, seconds later, "Tell me Loki wasn't kidding, you're actually you, I haven't been hallucinating and you've got the serum?"

"Not got it. He has. And also several explosions: _I_ thought SHIELD was going to step in before this."

"Yeah? Well, that makes two of us."

There's a low murmur on the other end of the line. Then:

"But Word of God is, we're moving _now_."

"Good. Late, but good. I'm out. Pepper's out. Thor's helping everyone else in the block out. Want him to help you out?"

"We could always use the muscle. We've got agents there mobilizing now."

"Okay, good. I'll connect you to his earpiece. And see if you can work out where those grenades are coming from."

"We'll try. Cover story's an act of terrorism, for the record."

"Because you know how I am with cover stories."

"I seem to recall a number of military training exercises you handled just fine."

"Rhodey. Rhodey handled them just fine."

"... Maybe just avoid the press then."

"I'm going to want a salary if Fury expects me to actually listen to him."

"I don't think he could afford you."

"... True."

There's a moment of silence. Then:

"Is anywhere safe?" Tony asks.

"We got a couple of spots. Why?"

"Pepper. Got hit, just a bit, by the blast. I need somewhere safe for her. Preferably with a doctor."

And maybe a garage.

And in the meantime, he'll work out where Loki went.

Where he went, and where the hell he took Bruce and Steve.

_Please be okay, Robbie._

_Please be alive._

_Please don't be found by Polt first._


	39. A Tangled Web

They arrive.

He does not know _where_ , but they arrive, and he is smiling with the _triumph_ of it even as his knees buckle beneath him and he slams face-first into the ground. It is dirt under him, not concrete, he thinks. He can feel the grit sticking to his face.

His hands are still wrapped about Bruce's arm, and Steve's.

He wants to release them, but his fingers will not obey him. They twitch uselessly, spasmodically, when he tries, as though he has taken a bolt of lightning to the chest. He soon gives up. It can make no difference to Steve, and Bruce will pry himself free soon enough if he needs to. He wonders where he has taken them. Tries to remember what his thoughts had been before he left, but all he can recall is the desperation to be somewhere far from New York and _safe_. It will be a place that he has been to before though. That, or somewhere he has seen.

"Tell me we're still on earth," he hears Bruce groan from beside him.

They are.

He would say so, but the dirt presses against his lips and he thinks he'd rather keep them closed.

He hopes, distantly, that he did not hurt Bruce too much falling. He does not want him to Hulk here.

He wonders how many pieces the beast would tear him into.

Two? Ten?

Or maybe it would just be his bones again.

"Loki?" Bruce says.

And then Bruce is prising free of him, and saying his name again more sharply and kneeling beside him in the dirt. He wants to pull away from the fingers that rest against his throat, but it is only Bruce, of course. Just Bruce, checking to see if he is dead or alive. Funny that. He laughs. He can feel something hot leaking from his nose and his mouth. He wonders if that is what the grit is sticking to. Wonders if he has been crying, or if it is merely blood.

He can't remember. A nagging voice whispers, somewhere, that this should matter.

"Loki, I'm going to flip you over, okay?"

Warmth, on his shoulder. He flinches, only that is a twitch too and makes no difference at all.

There is a grunt, a heave and—nothing.

"You're heavy," Bruce mutters.

He's not.

 _Volstagg_ is heavy.

There is the crunch of dirt as Bruce moves over to his other side. And then the mortal is pushing instead of pulling, and the world is lurching about him and he's staring upwards, and there's something wrong with his eyes, there must be, because it's like they've been smeared by thick grease. A rich scent hangs in the air— a soft tang that catches somewhere in his throat, familiar and—oh. Oh. He knows where he has smelt this before. It brings back memories of _I missed you too_ and cold air and colder stone slamming into his back and watching, amused, wondering if Thor would manage to kill Stark before he realised he was fighting an ally.

He feels like laughing and he doesn't know why.

"—going to be fine," Bruce is saying now, and then, lower, almost to himself, "Or I hope we are. Should've kept your coat, hmm, Banner?"

Is he cold? Probably.

 _He_ is, and he is a Jotun.

"I could warm you," he manages to produce, somewhere between a whisper and a croak.

He can't, actually, he suspects. He can't even lift his own fingers.

Predictably, Bruce's voice turns firm with displeasure.

"If you're thinking of using magic to do it, don't."

A flicker of warmth sparks inside.

It's nice, knowing the mortal cares.

"Is this earth?"

"Yes," Loki says.

It's a bit better than last time, his voice.

He needs a drink, he thinks. Water. But there is no water here.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

Silence. Then Bruce is reaching forward, and beginning to brush off the sticky filth off his face with something soft.

His eyes want to slip shut, and with each blink the dizziness in his head grows worse. He can't afford this. Cannot afford to rest, when Polt may still pursue them. And yet… What use will he be to either of them without it? What can he do for them, when he cannot even stand? When he cannot even _see_?

Viciously, he stamps the thought to pieces.

He _will_ be able to. Maybe he cannot now, but soon.

Soon, in a few minutes, he will be well enough to function once more. If he rests, he may do so for hours. Days, even. He has done it before.

Bruce sounds like he is having similar concerns, because he speaks suddenly, sharp.

"Stay with me, won't you? Don't go to sleep."

"I won't," Loki manages hoarsely, "I am—,"

"If you're going to say fine, then I'm pre-warning you now I'm not buying it," Bruce says.

Loki glares vaguely upwards.

The effect is ruined a little when something catches at the back of his throat and he breaks down coughing. It is ruined totally when Bruce squeezes his knees under his back to support him, props his head up so he can properly breathe, and begins patting his back as though he is a child trying to vomit. More blood leaks from his mouth, down his neck. He wishes it would not. It is undignified, sitting like this.

"What do we do now?" Bruce asks, minutes later, when he is done.

Loki shrugs, a weak twitch of one shoulder. But he _can_ do that now, and it is something.

"I do not know."

OoOoOoOoO

"Where's Loki most likely to be?" Tony asks, mid-flight.

Pepper's vital signs are normal, he notes. Slight bruising, a few cuts. A smudge of soot. All in all, not too bad. She should wake soon. Assuming SHIELD is even remotely secure and nothing happens to her in the little florist shop with 'Sale NOW' graffitied on the side in red paint that Clint tells him is actually a mini HQ. Which actually, no, that's not something he feels even remotely safe assuming.

"I do not _know,"_ Thor is saying now, frustration in every syllable, "I am no student of magic."

"Come on, you've fought beside him for, what was it, eight hundred years? You must know _something."_

"Magic is not something one simply _does_. It takes _years_ for one to master it."

"I'm not asking you to do magic, I'm asking you to give me some insight into where he'd want to go with Bruce and Steve with a grenade going off."

"Look," Clint interjects, "I still don't get why you can't just wait for him to go all Banquo on you. Send an extraction team _then."_

"I'm concerned he's not _conscious_ is why, Locksley."

"It will be a place to which he has been before," Thor says, "Likely somewhere he feels is safe. But we often visited this realm as youths. It could be anywh—"

There's a sudden scramble of voices, high and panicked, and Thor's voice, low and pitched to soothe someone who isn't him, telling them he's here to help.

"How is it back there?" Tony asks.

"Building's on fire," Clint says for Thor. "We've got agents going over now. Word is, the shooter hightailed out when Banner didn't Hulk. They lost him in the underground."

Damn the underground. He needs to get back there. Maybe Polt's minions haven't followed him and won't see if he leaves Pepper mid-way?

But they will.

They've followed everywhere else.

"How _did_ they find us, anyway?" Tony demands.

"You're not exactly easy to miss. You practically have five glowing beacons on you saying 'I am Iron Man'."

"In New York in the rain? With every other sign and streetlight on or flashing?"

"We're still working on it, okay? Maybe they've got some way of tracing the serum. Maybe they sliced the cameras and saw you land there."

"But why attack _now_? Why not before?"

"Rain? Traffic? Waiting for a good shot at Bruce? I don't know. Does there need to be one? He was definitely their target though. Resistance here collapsed as soon as it got broadcasted that the serum was gone and Bruce wasn't Hulking for them. Same in Washington. Same everywhere, and that's _with_ half the staff down. Disgusting really. And unprofessional. It's like it never occurred to them we'd act at all, let alone now. Makes me wonder just how much Fury's _been_ holding off 'cause of the serum."

"Or how many double-agents turned triple when they realised he'd lost."

"That too," Clint allows. "Fuck, I am _not_ looking forward to this debriefing."

Tony snorts, and then breaks and swerves around a building.

"Can SHIELD trace teleportation?"

"Kind of. Strange can. He's on vacation at the moment somewhere in Spain, but he's due back in a few days."

"Call him."

"You don't just _call_ Strange."

"Um, why not? I don't remember being on vacation ever stopping SHIELD bothering me."

"Because you don't magically reroute all calls that aren't your girlfriend or your bank to classical music, or alternate between relaxing at top-notch resorts and single-handedly decimating the latest magical threats to planetary security before SHIELD can do more than detect they're there on your vacations."

"So pretend we're the bank."

"Magic, Tony."

So Strange is out. Okay. Fair enough.

"Thor's girlfriend. Jane," Tony says abruptly, "She was doing something with inter-dimensional travel, wasn't she? Where's she these days?"

"... Tromsø Norway, from memory, buried in a lab somewhere. You want to try her?"

"Maybe. What are the odds Polt'll try her too?"

"… Shit. I'll raise it with Fury. And get you her number."

"Is Jane in danger?" Thor asks, concerned.

"Probably not. Polt's more likely to pose as SHIELD asking for info on atmospheric abnormalities than to shoot her, but like I said, I'm putting through a call to Fury now."

Tony wouldn't count on that, personally. If Thor likes her, Polt's just as likely to go for her as he is for Pepper now he knows Thor is here and his plans are ruined. Not that Polt ever _has_ gone for Pepper specifically, but still. Call him paranoid. He blames the pulse of fear that had passed through him, standing at the door _knowing_ he couldn't get back to her in time.

Five minutes later, he's there.

Two eye-scans, one false wall, an elevator and two hallways later, he's standing in front of a mini-hospital ward that's been curtained off from the main communications room. There's no nurse there, but the agent who feels Pepper's pulse when he sets her down on one of the beds _looks_ competent and tells him she's going to be fine. He's also got a gun at his belt, which is, right now, a lot more reassuring than a pen or a stethoscope. Still:

"Jarvis? Call up a spare suit. Keep it next to Pepper. If things go south, get her out."

"Ms Potts will be my first priority, sir."

"Good."

Because maybe an empty suit flying right here will be a double-tell that he's left something here to defend, maybe it'll make everyone here more of a target, but it's the only protection he's prepared to trust in. He's failed up till here, with pretty much everyone.

He'll be _damned_ if he fails with Pepper now.

OoOoOoOoO

It is ten minutes before Bruce extracts himself and rests Loki's head back first on the ground, then on Steve's arm.

"It's not much of a pillow, but I don't think he'll mind."

"Don't you think I'm a little dirty?" Loki says.

"Not really. It's just blood. Like I say, I don't think he'd care. I'll be back soon," Bruce adds, "I'm just going to see if there's enough kindling here to start a fire."

"With what?" Loki frowns.

A part of him does not like the idea. A fire will keep them warm, true, but unless this place is very remote a fire will also mean that someone will come here looking for it. Still... at the moment, Bruce is right. The cold is probably his most significant threat. He doubts anyone will come for it in the night, and with luck they will be gone from here by morning. Gone, or rescued. Assuming Barton or Romanoff know this place when he recovers enough to contact them and tell them where he is.

"Steve's got supplies for it," Bruce says, "Tinder and matches. And a torch."

"Ah. Very well," Loki says, "Try not to..."

"Hulk?" Bruce says for him, "Yes, well. At least it doesn't look like there's much round here to smash."

True. Or at least, Thor and Tony hadn't seemed to find anything that mattered.

Bruce keeps talking as he gathers his fuel. About the weather, about Polt, about when Steve will wake. About science. Loki contributes little more than "yes" and "no" and "I don't know", but he is grateful, as much for the distraction as for the indicator of where the doctor is. A part of him wants to know _why_ the mortal is still here. To know what is different between now and the Helicarrier, that Bruce was able to retain control. But perhaps it is just that here is under no direct threat and the aspirin is still protecting Bruce from the worst of his injuries. He wonders what will happen in an hour or so, when it wears off.

It's ten minutes before he catches the acrid scent of smoke that heralds Bruce's attempts at starting a fire.

"I don't know if it's caught or not," Bruce mutters, "It seems to be mostly smouldering. Wet wood, I guess."

Loki agrees with him, though there is the odd crack of sparks that says it _will_ produce some warmth eventually.

He wonders if they will still be here with it when it does.

They will be if he is like _this_ for long. He lets the steady stream of words rush over him, and focuses on _moving._

It is too long before his fingers and his toes obey him. Even when they do, the rest of him remains sluggish. Dull. The world alternates between the grey blur of night and the bright blur that means Bruce is shining his torch near him, and no amount of concentration will make it get better. He feels like Han Solo after the carbonite. Still. He can feel, and guess what is about him and his nose and mouth no longer leak blood. If he cannot move _gracefully,_ at least he can move. It will serve him well enough, must serve him well enough, to walk after Bruce to the fire, and maybe even to feed it tonight and allow them both to alternate watches. And then, when his sight is better, he will contact Barton. It is a good plan, he thinks.

He manages to flop himself up half-way before collapsing back with a small whine.

Pathetic. This is _pathetic_.

 _He_ is pathetic.

He grits his teeth, steels himself to try again, and then Bruce's good hand is pressing firmly against his shoulder, forcing him down.

"Don't be an idiot. You can't walk in your condition."

"I'm not. And I can."

"You are," Bruce tells him roundly, "Stop trying to push yourself. Just settle down and _rest_. The fire hasn't even started properly yet."

"I thought you did not _want_ me to sleep."

"That was when I was concerned that you were _dying._ I'm fairly sure now you're not."

Loki changes tactics.

"You have one good hand. I can help. _Physically_ ," he stresses, in case Bruce thinks he means with magic.

Bruce makes a frustrated noise.

"Did you stop to consider that if you waited for, what? Twenty minutes? An hour? Then Steve'd wake up and do it for you?"

Loki hesitates, frowning.

"Of course you didn't. You treat yourself like you're expendable in every plan you make."

That is because he _is_ expendable. He has _always_ been expendable. From the day he'd so carelessly given the advice that had threatened to cost them the sun and the moon and the beloved child-hostage of Vanaheim, he'd known that. He'd been so young then, he remembers, and stupid. So stupid. Stupid enough to think that going to Odin might be a _solution_ when the mobs had found him drinking in the taverns and told him that if he did not fix the mess he had created he would die. Stupid enough, later, to try _anything_ when Odin had told him that even if he did intercede, if no way was found to stop it they _all_ would.

He knows he isn't to them here, intellectually. Intellectually, he remembers Tony talking about boundaries and Steve telling him he worries.

But this is not hurting himself without cause.

There is a _reason_ for this.

"I cannot die in any way that matters," he forces out, "I only _hurt_. Hurt is nothing. I heal faster than _any_ of you."

"No, you don't. _I_ heal faster than you, if the Other Guy comes out. I don't even know if I _can_ die, except by the serum. Does that make _me_ expendable?"

"It is not the same."

"It's _exactly_ the same. You're like, I don't know. Blackavar, post-rescue, or Tristan going over to what's-his-name's tower binding the ice."

Loki frowns doubtfully. 'Blackavar' means nothing to him, and the only Tristan he remembers reading about from this realm was a knight in love with his aunt who didn't do much about it and died. He does not recall any ice. But the tone is an odd mixture of concern and anger and something that sounds like _care,_ and he can guess well enough that these are not things he wants to be likened to. So:

"I am not," he says firmly.

"You are. Loki, just because it's a side-effect of helping us in some way, just because it won't be permanent, doesn't make it mean nothing or be automatically okay with me when you half-kill yourself or break down screaming. You're _not_ expendable, Loki. Why can't you _see_ that?"

"I didn't break down screaming," Loki snaps defensively.

"Not now, maybe. You did when your collar was coming off."

Loki is silent.

Bruce exhales above him, long and slow.

"I'm sorry. For... using that, and getting angry at you. I just... I feel so _helpless,_ watching you get hurt."

"… You do?"

Bruce groans.

"You were prepared to stand between eight agents and me when you could barely keep yourself upright, and you took me here _knowing_ that if I lost it you'd be smashed just to keep me safe from Polt and Manhatten safe from me. I'm a time-bomb waiting to detonate anything near me, and you either don't have a self-preservation instinct or you never use it. Why wouldn't I feel helpless?"

Loki swallows uncertainly and thinks of his children.

Of Steve, and waiting in an alley in the rain wondering if they'd caught him too.

He feels ill when he is helpless and he hates whatever is responsible for it, but the anger usually comes later. But Thor sometimes yelled at him for getting himself hurt, he remembers. He wonders, suddenly, if sometimes Thor didn't do it because he was angry with him or because he thought he should have done _better_ somehow or been _more,_ but because Thor felt helpless too, and shouting was his solution to not knowing what to do about it. Wonders if sometimes, not often, no, but _sometimes_ , he has misjudged his not-brother.

"I did not mean to make you feel helpless," he says stiffly.

"I know. I just don't think you _see_ sometimes how much—"

Something snaps, in the bushes. _Moves._

Bruce twists around, and Loki turns his head there blindly too and wishes he could _see._

"What is it?"

A click, and a bright blur replacing the fuzzy black.

"... Wind, I think, breaking the branches."

"We need to move."

"We need to wait, Loki. For Steve."

Loki scowls.

"I know. You don't like needing help. I don't much like it either. But can you just... try? For twenty minutes?"

Something snaps again.

His heart is pounding in his chest, hard and far too fast.

He hates it. Hates that Bruce can feel it.

Hates that Bruce's hand won't let him rise.

"Something is _there_."

He can feel that something is there.

He wonders if this forest is home to wolves.

"You've been watching too much 'Beauty and the Beast'," Bruce tells him, when he says so. "Even if it was, they'd be unlikely to go for us with the fire."

Loki scowls more.

On Asgard, _nothing_ is intimidated by fire. Not unless it is attached to a weapon.

"You need to rest. Can you even _see_?"

"Yes," Loki lies.

"Then you can see nothing is there."

But something is. Something _is_.

He can hear it breathing, loud in the night.

"Don't panic. Just... breathe. In and out. Okay? It's a forest. It's natural that things will be in it."

He is _not_ panicking.

What is there?

"Steve'll be up soon and we can, I don't know. Climb a tree, maybe. We're fine."

Are they?

What if it is wolves?

What if it is Polt?

He can't kill the Hulk, but if Bruce Hulks, will he hurt Steve? Will he hurt _him?_

_Puny god._

Loki thinks so. He doesn't think the Hulk likes him any better than he likes the Hulk.

"It's probably just a rabbit or something."

"Have you ever seen 'Ella Enchanted'?" Loki asks him.

There's another snap, closer this time. Too close, and he's reaching inwards instinctively before he remembers to stop, summoning a dagger just in case he somehow finds the strength to wield it. And then his body is shaking with laughter, mad and silent and desperate, because it _does not_ _answer._ His magic writhes inside without direction, igniting every nerve and he arches his back in silent _agony_ as it washes through him, but it doesn't _answer._

Bruce's hands are on his shoulders and he is speaking now, telling him that it's okay, that it's just a bear, that it's moving past, that he mustn't panic since they're not usually aggressive, asking what is _wrong_ , but Bruce does not understand.

It _needs_ to _work._ He can feel the panic fluttering inside. Can feel his eyes widening with realisation and with terror.

He has overextended himself.

He has managed to do what he did after the Builder, after the Void, after Skadi, and he _can't use it_.

"Breathe, Loki."

He hadn't realised he had stopped. His hands are scrabbling uselessly at the soil, forming matching furrows in the ground.

"It's going to be okay, Loki. Breathe."

It's not. It's _not_. Everything is _wrong_ inside and it is _not_.

How long? How far has he pushed himself? How long will this last?

An hour? A day? A week?

They don't _have_ a week.

"Loki, whatever this is, it's going to be okay. We're okay. Breathe. In and out. Just breathe."

He can't stop laughing. He can't breathe in because he can't stop breathing _out_ and all of this is too hilarious to stop.

It is a long time before it ends. Even when it does, he can't stop shaking.

His fingers are filthy, caked with soil and leaf mould.

Bruce does not stop holding him.

Part-blind as he is, it could almost be Steve doing so. Or Thor.

"I can't use it," he whispers.

Too small and too lost, and he's not surprised when Bruce goes rigid behind him.

"I cannot _use_ it."

Bruce is silent for a long while.

When he speaks, his voice is forced.

"You said it was like using a weak muscle, right? When you do too much with one, you end up straining it or tearing it eventually. You probably did it bringing us here."

Loki feels a hot lump forming somewhere in his throat.

Of all the things Bruce could have chosen to say, words to blame him for trying, for dismissing himself again so easily, words to say _why did you do this_ or _I told you so_ or _why didn't you listen_ , Bruce has chosen ones that he thinks will comfort him the most. He doesn't know if it's true. He does know that Bruce knows far less than he. It shouldn't matter. The comfort is meaningless and it shouldn't _matter_ like it does that the mortal still tries.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

He doesn't know why.

For all of it, maybe. For failing.

_I did not mean to make you feel helpless._

Or maybe he is just overtired, overwrought and sore.

"Don't apologize, buddy. You'll be okay. You need to rest though."

He can't rest. He can't.

He is beyond rest now.

He needs to get up, to watch Steve, to _move._

"Even for just twenty minutes," Bruce says. "I'll wake you as soon as Steve does, or if there's a danger."

The dull panic pounds inside, urging him to refuse. Demanding that he stay _awake._

And yet, he can hear the worry in Bruce's voice.

Would it really mean so much?

Even if he can't rest, he can at least pretend, can he not? He can still _lie._

Even when there is nothing else, there is always that.

"You don't even _have_ to sleep," Bruce adds, "Just... close your eyes. Try to relax."

Loki hesitates.

"... I have your word on it?"

"My solemn oath. Twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes," Loki repeats after him.

Just twenty. Slowly, too slowly, he allows his eyes to drift shut.

Nothing changes, really. He feels the same. Everything is just darker.

He wonders if Steve will remember where they are. He hadn't been piloting, he remembers, but he had been near to Romanoff. He might be able to. But it doesn't matter, of course. SHIELD will find them, eventually. They will see the smoke, or the reports of those that do.

Maybe Polt will too, but...

Bruce is right. Steve will be awake then.

Steve will be able to kill those who threaten them. Maybe he will even be able to contact Tony. To contact SHIELD.

And in the meantime he decides, hands wrapped tightly about his middle, trying not to shiver, he will _wait_.

Wait, and do his best to pretend for Bruce that sleep has come.

OoOoOoOoO

It's surprising really, how quickly it's over in the end.

There's a skirmish or two, according to Clint, but nothing he or Thor need to handle. Nothing serious. No attempts on Pepper, no shots at Thor. No mysterious phone calls with vague do-or-die threats that all the cliches say should be happening right now. Polt himself is caught trying to board a Quinjet— both pilots, unfortunately for him, are double agents. Or triple agents. Tony's not sure. With SHIELD, he's not sure he ever will be. But Polt's put inside a nice little cell, alone, for a private trial.

"Though I'm predicting a quiet accident, myself," Clint says. "Hope it's me."

SHIELD capture, according to Clint, ninety-percent of the people working for Polt. Natasha puts the figure rather lower, but she at least thinks they got seventy percent.

None of them are shape-shifters.

The optimistic part of Tony hopes that's because Polt only had two.

He and Thor get the upper levels of the block out, and about twenty minutes in the fire services arrive and fix the rest. Everything is a mess, especially when the press turn up, and Pepper's insurance premium is definitely going to climb by a factor of ten, but it could have gone worse. It is worse, sort of, going back to the Tower, but he's got rid of Polt's virus now and Jarvis's air filters have mostly purged the poison from the air, and SHIELD arrive to pack up what's left of Polt's agents and take them away in black bags before he can think too much about them. Pepper comes back, flying, and tells him that she is impressed he isn't claustrophobic in his suits because _she_ is.

The difference Tony tells her, is that Jarvis flew her and he flies himself. In space, claustrophobic sums up exactly how he'd felt.

None of them talk much about how they can't find Loki, Steve and Bruce.

Pepper makes calls to New Mexico, to Germany, to every other place with people that Loki's been known to go to, asking if they've seen Steve or Bruce.

She also calls Dr. Foster, and gets someone called Darcy Lewis, intern, who says Jane's out and will call back.

Tony drinks scotch in the penthouse and tries to work out an algorithm for self-repairing code so Jarvis can notice when people who aren't Tony or authorised by Tony alter him and restore himself to what he was without it. He also puts on a fresh suit so that if an emergency happens he can respond. Thor is rather less useful than either of them, but Thor saved Pepper and most of the block so that's fair. The demigod seems to be mostly pacing and frowning and asking Heimdall to ask Odin if he can take him back home and send him immediately to where Loki is. Tony gives him points for determination. He'd have stopped asking the first hour of getting absolutely no response.

"You did say your dad found the whole inter-dimensional travel thing exhausting, didn't you?" he offers once.

It's better than ' _Your dad's a dick and I honestly doubt he gives a damn about your brother_ '.

It's six in the morning before Tasha calls. None of them have slept.

She sounds like she hasn't either.

"You have found Loki?" Thor says, before anyone can speak.

"No. Still looking. Thor, Lewis just called SHIELD. Dr Foster didn't return for lunch, and she's not at the observatory. She's also not answering her phone. The last time she was seen was this morning, when she got in a car with some guy calling her up about some new data. We checked it out. His ID is a fake."

Thor's face darkens.

"What are you saying?"

"We think she may have been compromised."


	40. Pursuit

"I _thought_ Barton said that Jane was not in danger."

Tony is glad he's not Natasha right now. Hell, he's glad he's not SHIELD in general.

The level of quiet fury in Thor's voice is scary.

"SHIELD miscalculated," Natasha tells him calmly, "And now we're trying to correct that. Thor, I didn't call you up to help in a search party. We're already scanning every satellite, camera, phone, and computer in Norway for Jane and the car she left in, and the world for Loki, Bruce and Steve. As soon as any of them use one or go to any well-lit, open area, we'll know. I called you to ask if you're still going to be on our side if they call you up telling you she's going to be tortured or killed if you don't do what they tell you to."

"How is this still a threat? I thought you stopped Polt," Tony says, before Thor can reply.

"We're still working that out. Believe me, SHIELD isn't any happier about this than you are."

"Do you truly think they will harm her?" Thor says.

"We think they might."

"Do you? Then why have they not yet contacted me, if that is their purpose?" Thor demands.

"We think they may be using her to track Loki for them. If they were smart enough to break the encryption on your call, Tony, then they know Loki has the serum. If not, they may want to target Bruce or they may just want revenge. But whatever it is, if we're right, they're not going to need her once Loki's found. You're powerful, Thor. More powerful than most of what they've got. They'll need a way to dissuade you from stopping them, from stopping Bruce or possibly to persuade you to force Loki to part with the serum. If SHIELD can't find her or send a subtle enough extraction team, we think she'll be that way."

Thor's hands bunch into fists. Outside, thunder rumbles in the sky.

"Where is Polt being held?"

"That's classified, Thor."

"If he has taken Jane—"

"But he hasn't," Natasha says evenly, "Polt's in solitary, and has been since three this morning. He won't know where she is."

"He could tell them to return her. Else I could crush his skull for _daring_ to threaten her."

"I'll raise it with Fury," Natasha promises smoothly, "But right now, Thor, what we need to know is, if it's Jane or us, will you choose us?"

Thor looks torn. Torn, and furious.

Abruptly he turns away from them towards the window.

"I would not give Polt the serum," he says at last, "Nor force Loki to do so for me. But I _will_ find some way to save her. I will not allow Polt's minions to torment her merely to hurt me if there is a way for me to stop it."

"Okay. I'll tell Fury what you've said," Natasha says. She hesitates, before adding: "I'm sorry the extraction team didn't reach her in time."

"So am I," Thor says.

"So are all of us," Tony puts in, "What I want to know is _why?_ Clint raised the issue _hours_ ago."

"Because SHIELD is a _mess,_ Tony. Most of the tech staff were down, HQ wasn't operating normally until four, and the meteor data Foster got called up to consult on was valid and hours from anywhere. No one thought to question it until she didn't get back and the team we sent out for her didn't find her. We didn't even know for sure it _was_ Polt until an hour ago, when one of our moles reported in. There's not exactly a shortage of people who are interested in Foster's work."

Thor frowns. Pepper does too.

"Did they tell you if Dr Foster was alright?" she asks.

"No. We think her kidnapper may have been a shapeshifter though. We haven't yet found a visual match for his ID."

"Wait, there's _more_ of them?" Tony demands.

"Apparently. We're still questioning Polt's more tractable agents about how many. Right now we don't even know where they come from; they're not Xavier's. Watch out for them though. They're opportunists and they're smart. And they can pack quite the punch if you don't take them down fast."

"Yeah, no, very aware of that here," Tony says. "The guys crumpled my suit with their _hands_. I thought _Thor_ was the only one who did that."

"That was no great feat. Your armour is hardly Uru," Thor says mildly.

Tony ignores that. It _is_ a feat, whatever uru is.

"We'll make a note of it, Tony," Natasha says, "The one I fought didn't do more than toss me across the room before Clint hit him through the eye."

"That actually worked for him?"

"The agent didn't manage to get it out before it detonated. So, yes."

Tony revises his estimate of Clint's level of badass a few notches upwards.

"Anything else we should know?"

"Not about them. We've been sending teams to remote locations, high alert, top secret; nothing serious. The goal is to throw whatever agents are still working for Polt off the scent, and see if we can draw some of them out while we're at it. If you've still got access to our servers and you see it, don't panic. The moment we get something concrete on them, Jane or Loki, Clint or I will call you."

"Right. Thanks."

He had been worried. Well. Would have been, if he'd checked. Probably.

"If you hear anything before we do," Tasha adds, "Call us. We can keep you updated about the area, and make enough noise in the wrong areas to cover you for a rescue."

"You'll try, you mean. SHIELD hasn't been doing so well in the succeeding department, recently."

"Thanks, Tony," she says drily.

No denials though.

A moment or two later, she ends the call and Pepper sets the phone back down.

She's watching Thor, brow creased with sympathy and concern.

She's worried, Tony knows. They all are.

Thor refuses when Tony offers him scotch, which is... fair enough. He wonders if Thor will actually say no if they do call. Wonders, too, if _he'd_ have had the strength to refuse someone like Polt, if it was Pepper being threatened. Maybe. He doesn't think he could say it though. Not out loud.

No, out loud, he'd agree and cooperate just long enough to find a way of cutting the wire.

He hopes Thor's the same.

After a moment or two, Tony wanders back over to his laptop, straddles his swivel-chair, and begins typing.

"What are you doing?" Pepper asks.

Tony glances up at her.

"My homework."

More accurately, he's Googling the Foster Theory and compiling a list of every spot Loki's been to on earth in the past two years.

That, and every place he's ever been to earlier if Thor can think of any that are likely.

Once he knows them, he can cross out every place that Jarvis and SHIELD _would_ have got a hit from if they'd landed there, and he can see if any of the black spots that are left are places that have had anything happen in the last four hours that even remotely matches whatever the Foster Theory says it should when there's been magical travel. Or, failing that, just anything odd at all.

He can do this.

He needs coffee, but he's got this.

Because if Jane's out and there are shapeshifters hunting Loki, he's no longer content to sit here passively and wait.

OoOoOoOoO

By the time the first half of his promised rest is done, Loki is forced to admit, privately, that Bruce may have been right.

It may have been wise, staying down.

He does not feel well. He has not for a while, true, but it is only now the panic and the adrenaline are fading that he realises how _much_ he has been leaning on them to mask the extent of what is wrong with him. He'd known he was sore before, and tired, but not _how_ tired, and apparently he is also thirsty, slightly hysterical, and _cold._ He can't get warm. He can't get warm and he can't _hide_ it because he can't stop shivering and his teeth won't stop chattering, and at the same time, his head is burning and the bottom-left part of his stomach feels as though it is being periodically speared.

He tries to distract himself by counting— seconds, the snapping of the fire, Steve's heartbeat— but there are too many noises around him and he keeps losing count.

It is too soon before Bruce tells him the twenty minutes have passed.

He doesn't want them to have passed.

He had hoped he would feel better than this when they had.

He wonders how long this illness will last. Wonders if he will achieve anything if he does try once more to rise.

Retching, probably. He feels a bit like doing that now. But that is the ground's fault, for spinning. Or is it? Is it merely him?

He's not sure. It feels steady enough, when he splays a hand out to feel it.

"Would you consider resting a bit more?" Bruce says cautiously, from somewhere close to him.

Loki hesitates. He doesn't know why.

Pride, maybe.

"I mean, I know you _could_ get up, but..." Bruce hesitates, "How about resting just as a favour? For a friend?"

This is manipulation.

Obvious, _shameless_ manipulation.

Loki is... touched, he decides. He has not the will to resent the fact that Bruce cares enough for him to try it. He does not want to get up.

He wonders if he could crawl closer to the fire. Maybe on top of it. That might be warm enough so that he could feel it. Only then he would not be next to Steve.

"I suppose I could manage a few more minutes," he mumbles at last, staying where he is, "For a friend."

"Thanks. Try to sleep, if you can," Bruce tells him, "You don't look well."

So much for knowing that he could get up.

Loki wants to glare at him, but the world keeps on spinning and he closes his eyes instead to try to shut it out.

It makes no difference. Why would it, when he can't see?

There's a soft crunch of dirt close to his head, and then two cool fingers are resting against his brow.

"You're running a fever," Bruce says, "Is that normal?"

"Yes," Loki lies.

Or maybe he doesn't lie. Maybe this is. He doesn't know. He's been feverish before, when he's exhausted his magic, but he'd always thought things like being pregnant or starving or having been tortured accounted for it. Perhaps they don't.

"Okay," Bruce says, "Well, if you need anything, if there's anything I can do for you, tell me."

Loki nods, a soft twitch of both eyebrows. He wants water, but he doesn't _need_ it.

"... Will you—?" he starts.

"Don't stress about me," Bruce tells him, "Steve'll wake soon to look after me."

Eir would have liked Bruce, he decides muzzily, curling inwards into as tight a ball as he can make himself. She would most certainly have liked Bruce _._

Time passes slowly as he lies there trying to rest, and reality twists about him.

In the better parts, he is himself, trying to heal, knowing he should rise, knowing they are defenceless, fretting about himself and everyone and _not_ fretting about Thor. Other times he lies frozen, terrified for no reason at all, trying to remain still so that the horror that seeks him does not _find_ him. In the worst parts, he is in Asgard again and Odin looms before him pointing Grungnir at his chest, and he tries to _escape_ him only he can't because he is pinned to the ground by a dagger Frigga has driven through his spine. Other times it is Thor, but a Thor with no love in his eyes who sneers at him and tells him he is nothing.

He retches, and something is holding him up, dragging his hair back out of his face to escape the choking bile.

It reminds him of— of—

He doesn't know. The thought pulls from him before he can grasp it, and he is drifting again.

He is in SHIELD's cells again, because Steve is dead and Tony is dead and Fury tells him that without his magic they no longer need him. He is a child, trying to escape the nightmares, searching for Thor to drive back the cold only when he peels back the covers to climb in the bed beside him, Thor is lying in a pool of blood and staring up at him from sightless eyes, and Loki realises he himself has driven the knife through his heart.

Once, as he lies shaking, drenched with sweat and pleading, he thinks he feels someone rubbing warm circles into his back and telling him he's safe.

They're _lying._ He will never be safe.

He tries to tell them so.

And then he's being tilted up again and a ring of moisture is being pressed against his cracked lips and he's drinking from the bottle, gulping the water down, and there's not enough, it's gone and there's _not enough_ and he's grabbing the hand that pulled it there to keep it in case it offers more.

It's warm, and it doesn't try to escape. Good.

 _You disgrace me_ , Odin tells him, eye pale with disgust.

He pulls it closer still.

A child sits on a fencepost watching him, eyes sad, a chain about its throat.

_Why did you never free me?_

He reaches for it, and he is falling.

He doesn't want to fall. He needs to _hold on_ because he doesn't want to fall.

Thanos looms before him, scepter in hand.

_You failed me._

He is running, and all of them are dead.

Everyone is dead.

_You failed me, little King._

_There is_ nowhere _you can hide._

OoOoOoOoO

It's a short list Tony compiles in the end.

Thor has nothing for him except Puente Antiguo. He claims they used to be fond of parts of Europe, but he can't remember where now.

"It was so long ago now, and everything in this realm has changed."

Anywhere SHIELD is out, for obvious reasons.

So far as he can see, no one's posting photos or videos yet of Steve and Bruce on the social media or the news, which means that Stuttgart, New York and Puente Antiguo are out too. Steve, at least, is famous enough that someone _would_ have, at least when he's in uniform. That leaves wherever Loki went in-between leaving the Helicarrier and arriving at Stark Tower, the desert outside Puente Antiguo, the mountain area of the Cibola National Forest and probably the sewer Clint said he'd talked about popping eyeballs out in, in Germany.

All of them are plausible.

He only knows where three of them are, but that's still seventy-five percent. Not good, but not bad.

At least he _has_ three places to look.

It'll be like Harry hunting Horcruxes, minus the convenient clues via one-on-one brain time.

Unless, of course, Loki _didn't_ go to somewhere he's seen in the past two years. Unless he went for somewhere he's been to years ago alone or with Thor that hasn't been developed beyond recognition in five hundred odd years, which is nowhere near as implausible as Tony would like it to be right now _._ He sets Jarvis scanning all three places and comparing archived satellite footage to now anyway. No point in doing nothing while he adds to the list, right?

Then he rises, scotch in hand, and wanders over to Thor.

He can think of _one_ place that's plausible.

"Where does Loki's kid, the snake one —Jorga-whatever— live these days?"

"The seabed," Thor says, and then, frowning, "My brother would not have gone there, if that is your meaning."

Tony makes a skeptical noise. It's not that far-fetched a theory, is it?

The sea floor hasn't been touched in most places, and whenever Loki spoke about his kids, it always sounded like he loved them.

It's not much of a stretch to think they'd love him back.

"Because...? I mean, I know it's under the sea and all, but he's a sorcerer. You sure he never set up—"

"I am sure," Thor says again, "My nephew was cast out from Asgard by our father as a... child. By the time my brother saw him again, Jormungand had grown in his new realm, ruthless and cunning, to the size of a large mountain range. He did not know Loki. Loki told me that he tried to eat him, thinking him _food_. So yes, I am sure that my brother would not take them there. Unless my brother wished them dead, he would not risk taking them anywhere near his son. Not in his current state."

"That's— " Tony breaks off.

"Barbaric," Pepper finishes for him, "His own grandson— How _could_ he?"

Thor's brow furrows.

"I do not know that our father considered him his grandson. His mother was a creature of unspeakable evil. What she did—" Thor breaks off.

There's a short moment of silence, and then the phone rings and Thor's twisting to look at it, face brightening with _hope_.

It's just the PR office, probably looking for quotes for the press.

Pepper takes it anyway and Thor turns back to him, frowning once more.

"It was no cruelty, if that is what you fear. He is happy enough. Loki often asked, and Heimdall always said that he was so. Far happier than he ever was in Asgard, where his weight threatened to crush him and swimming too close to the edges of our seas would have sent him plummeting into the void."

Tony swallows a mouthful of scotch.

What does he say here?

_Oh wow. Isn't it great your dad separated a little kid from his dad and tossed him into the sea for no reason and that happened to work for him?_

Somehow he thinks that route might end with Thor's fist in his mouth and his teeth lodged somewhere down the back of his throat.

For some reason, Thor still likes Odin.

"I'm guessing Loki wasn't happy?" he says at last.

"He was not," Thor confirms. "We tried harder with his children after that, Tyr and I. We had grown apart during the war with Muspelheim — It raged for eight years, and while it did Loki remained in Asgard, and we on the front lines. Neither of us, I think, realised until then how friendless they had become, that none but Loki himself raged on his son's behalf. His gratitude when I did shamed me. No matter what they looked like or what their mother had been, he should never have had to be grateful that his brother treated his children as kin."

It's official. Thor's kicked puppy look can melt stone.

It's melting _him._ He needs to make a mental note to stop asking about Asgard and Loki. Guilt isn't a good look on Thor.

"But you still don't blame Odin for not?" his mouth says anyway, before he can stop it.

"No. I do not."

"Why?"

Thor frowns.

"Those answers are not mine to share."

"Oh? But the torture-by-Chitauri thing was?"

Thor folds his arms across his chest.

Defensive? Tony doesn't know him well enough to be sure, but he'll chalk it up as a maybe.

"I would not have spoken if you had not asked me of it, nor would I if you had not been to him both victim and friend. But you did ask, and as the former you had a right to know why my brother brought war to you and your realm. And as the latter, you had a right to know how _wrong_ I was to have told you that he attacked only from madness and because he sought vengeance against me. I doubted, and still doubt, that my brother would ever tell you himself. He is proud, and his pride makes him slow to share any tale of his own torment. He does not enjoy being pitied."

"I don't pity him," Tony says automatically.

He feels bad for Loki sometimes, but that's different from pity.

No matter what the dictionary says, pity is what you feel for injured kittens and Justin Hammer and the starving kids on the front of the pamphlets sent out by whatever cause wants his money injected into their relief effort. It's not what you feel for the guy who threw you out a window and likes peppermint ice-cream and agrees that James Potter was an idiot for trying to hold Voldemort off without a wand, no matter how many times he's been used as the universe's punching bag. It's just _not_.

"I am aware," Thor says, eyes lost in thought. "You would not speak of him as you do if you did."

There's a moment of silence, punctuated by Pepper telling the PR team that, yes, Tony is _personally_ hunting for the terrorists responsible for the explosion.

She's also got a couple of awesome, if completely fabricated, quotes.

Then Thor says:

"I confess though... A part of me also hoped that you might, if you knew how I had failed him, have some advice for me about what I am doing wrongly with my brother now. He trusts you, I can see that in his eyes. But when he looks at me..." Thor trails off, "It is no matter. I suppose his doubt is natural enough, given what we both believed about the Jotnar in the past. I will find some way to prove to him that I care for him, eventually."

There's a plea there, Tony thinks, but all he's got is  _'Stop trying to say what happened to his kids was fine,'_ which Thor's kind of knocked back already, and maybe also _'Stop thanking SHIELD for torturing him,'_ which he also can't say because if he does, Loki will gut him.

Tony takes another mouthful of scotch. He should probably go back to drinking coffee soon. 

He needs more caffeine in his brain.

"Okay. So Jormungand's out," he says lamely, and then adds, "You're _sure_ you don't want a scotch, buddy?"

"I am sure. I will drink when my brother and Jane are safe."

Safe. _That's_ a laugh.

"The way Loki is, you've just sworn off alcohol for life."

"... You may well be right," Thor allows, "When Jane is safe and Loki is _found,_ then."

"Wise move. Though—"

"Sir?" Jarvis interrupts them.

"Yeah?" Tony says sharply.

"I have been monitoring radio communications in the Cibola Forest Reserve. Several messages I have intercepted suggest that the rangers there have detected a plume of smoke in a restricted part of the Sandia Mountain Wilderness area. The location is within the area in which you and Mr Odinson fought."

Tony's heart lurches straight to gear four.

"And the satellite footage says...?"

"Nothing conclusive, sir. I believe the fire may be too small to register significantly."

"Loki?" Thor says.

"That assumption may be unduly optimistic, Mr Odinson. The area is frequented by tourists; Mr Silvertongue may not be responsible."

Probably fair, the logical part of Tony says.

The optimistic part says damn logic. It's in the right spot and the area's _restricted_. There's no way this is a coincidence _._

One look at the demigod is enough to tell him that Thor feels the same.

They're going.

OoOoOoOoO

Awareness returns to him with the scent of smoke, and the hushed murmur of Bruce talking.

Loki ignores it at the start, until the seconds turn to minutes and it doesn't _go_ and he registers that he can see.

There are trees above him, around him, and everything is dull in the moonlight. Even the fire burns sullenly, releasing too much smoke and not enough heat.

How long? How _long_ has he lain here? It is still dark, but that is no help; he has lost all grasp of time. It could have been hours. It could have been _days._

Could have been—

He is still lying on Steve's arm, he notes.

Has Steve not woken, then?

But no, Steve is propped up awkwardly on one elbow, talking softly to Bruce, and he is holding Steve's hand, clutching it to his chest like a child might clutch a stuffed toy. A small metal bottle of some sort lies a few inches away on the ground, and a foot or so away is a foul-smelling puddle of vomit.

Awkward. But then, the Norns seem to hate him this day, so perhaps he should have expected this.

It could have been worse. He can't quite think _how_ , but he is certain it could have been.

Maybe it could have been Thor. Yes. That would have been worse.

Thor would have gotten sentimental, if he'd woken holding Thor's hand. Worse, his not-brother would have used the weakness against him as proof that he does not hate him and Loki does not want that. He _does_ hate Thor. He _needs_ to hate Thor. The instinctive, _pathetic_ desire to seek Thor out for comfort is merely a bad habit he has yet to break, that is all, just as it is habit that guides Thor now and makes him call him brother when they both know it is a lie. Eventually it will stop. He will master himself and Thor will remember what he is and no longer look at him and care. He needs his hate, when that happens. He _needs_ it, to shield him against that second loss.

_But would he stop? He says he never stopped before. You would know if he were lying._

_You always know when he is lying._

But does he? He used to think that about Frigga, too, and Odin, and yet he'd never _seen_ it when they'd called him 'son'.

Does he know anymore when Thor lies?

It doesn't matter. None of it matters, really. He will deal with the mess that is the spot Thor holds in his heart eventually.

Actually, if it had been Thor here, Thor would probably have simply _left_ him in the dirt or inside a hospital and flown off somewhere to be of use.

His fingers clench. On Steve's hand, Loki realises belatedly.

He frowns. Somehow his fingers don't quite seem to have received the message that they need to let go.

He concentrates, and forces them stiffly open.

And then Steve is twisting to stare down at him, eyes warm with concern, and Loki masters himself enough to send him a crooked smile. It's supposed to be dry, but he can't quite manage to squash the warmth that ignites inside him at the fact that Steve _is_ awake and not dead and _able_ to look at him.

"How is your jaw?" Loki says.

"Sore," Steve replies promptly, "Thanks for that, by the way. That stuff... Crucio's too kind a word for it."

"It is," Loki agrees.

He tries to sort through various apologies, to select one that might cover Steve's hand and vomiting and whatever else he did and can't remember, but his mind is lethargic still and none of them please him.

Perhaps he can just ignore it?

"The first few times are the worst," he tries, "It hurts less when you expect it."

"... I'll take your word for it," Steve says firmly. "Or at least, I fully intend to. Are you feeling any better now?"

"Yes," Loki tells him.

It's not a lie. Better is such a _vague_ word.

But he can feel Bruce watching him, so he sits up to prove it anyway. He manages it on his first try, and a part of him is absurdly proud of the fact. His head still feels a bit muzzy and his limbs feel heavier than they should, and he is trying not to think too much about his magic and the aching mess of it inside, but the soreness is bearable now, and the hysteria is mostly gone. It will do. He will do.

"How long was I..." _Delirious? Insane?_ "Resting for?" he says, glancing at Bruce.

"I don't know, sorry. I don't have a watch," Bruce says, apologetically.

He looks more weary now, Loki thinks, and more strained. Is the aspirin wearing off? Probably.

More than four hours then.

He shuffles a foot or two closer to the fire.

He hopes Tony or SHIELD find them soon.

"Does Steve know where we are?"

"Steve," Steve says, stretching his arm, "thinks we're somewhere in the Cibola National Forest, New Mexico. I'm not sure where though."

The name means nothing to him, but he nods anyway.

"Does Tony know of it?"

"Yes," Steve says.

 _Oh,_ Loki thinks, spreading his hands out over the warmth, _good._

"Does Polt know of it too?"

"Probably," Steve says, "Bruce and I were trying to work out if we wanted to wait for an extraction team or start walking in search of water."

A memory flashes before him. Water, being offered to him, and draining it all while clutching Steve's hand.

He flushes slightly.

Perhaps he _can't_ ignore everything after all.

"Did I finish your supplies?" he asks stiffly.

"Technically. But I only had the one pocket flask," Steve says, "There was only a cup or so in it; it wouldn't have lasted long. We'd always have faced this choice."

Loki picks at a piece of half-charred stick on the ground.

"I... apologise, nevertheless. I was not quite myself, I think."

"Most people aren't, when they've got a fever. Honestly, I'm just surprised you recovered this fast," Steve says, like it's just a fact.

Like there's nothing _wrong_ with what Loki is or has done.

He will kill Polt, for hurting Steve.

Even if Polt had done nothing to him, he would kill him for hurting Steve.

There is _nowhere_ he will allow the mortal to run.

"Do we know in which direction water lies, or how far we would need to go to get to it?" he asks.

"Yes and no," Steve admits. "I don't know how far, but I got a glimpse of the area when I was parachuting, and I'm fairly sure there's a river west of here."

Loki is inclined to choose walking. But that is because he is thirsty; he's not sure it's truly wise.

"I would wait," he says at last, "They will find us before long, I think. When dawn comes, their satellites should be able to see us."

Or if not them, their smoke. Someone will be sent.

Someone is probably _being_ sent now.

Bruce looks relieved, he thinks. At the rescue, or the prospect of not walking?

"About the rescue," Bruce says then, sounding thoughtful, "I've been trying to decide: If Polt's target is me, is it going to be safe for me to go back anywhere near people? Even if SHIELD have moved, can we guarantee that they've stopped everyone who'll blow up an apartment just to get to me?"

Probably just not walking, then.

"Why should they target you now? Once Polt is dead, his minions will gain nothing from doing so."

"Except a trashed New York City, and revenge."

"True," Loki allows. That would have motivated _him._ "But they will target you and trap you wherever you go."

Bruce looks... guilty, he thinks. And slightly depressed, though it is hard to be sure.

"The choice is yours, I suppose," Loki says, "If you wish to leave, _you_ will be breaking the news to Tony, but I do not think Fury will stop you. He owes you that much. All of SHIELD does. If you wish to stay however," he says hopefully, because he _wants_ this to be true, "And Thor is not sufficient for you, you could always ask Tony to access Ross' research into serums to put your Hulk to sleep. I'm sure he could manage something for you. Especially if it meant you would feel safe enough to stay. If we made the fact that we had that serum a complete secret, every enemy you had would probably know within the week. The attacks on you would probably be fewer."

"At least until they tried to steal the serum," Bruce says.

"Guys?" Steve says.

"We could protect it. Tony could protect it," Loki says, ignoring him.

 _We could protect you_.

He likes Bruce. He doesn't want Bruce to leave.

Doesn't want him to _want_ to leave.

"I'm just not—"

"Guys," Steve says again, more sharply.

"What is it?" Loki says.

"Something's—"

"— coming," Loki finishes for him, stiffening, because he can hear, now he listens, the distant roar.

It is an aircraft, of some sort. And whatever it is is coming fast, and flying low.

"SHIELD?" Bruce says.

"Can't tell," Steve says, "Whoever they are, they'll have seen the smoke. I think we can count on company."

"So what do we do?" Bruce asks, "Panic? Line up, form a welcoming committee?"

"Neither," Loki says, frowning at Bruce, "They are probably SHIELD. They _should_ be. But if they are Polt, they will be after you. And possibly me, since I have the serum."

"In that case," Steve says, frowning up at the sky, "I'd advise that you two hide. Let me see what they're after first."

Reluctantly, Loki nods. He does not like the idea, but he can think of nothing better.

At least Steve is trained for war, even if he has no weapon. And Steve sometimes beats him sparring.

Bruce looks slightly relieved.

Did he expect him to reject the idea? To insist on greeting them himself?

Probably. For some reason, Bruce seems to think him a masochist.

"Hide where?" the doctor is saying now.

"The undergrowth and the shadows maybe, or up a tree. If either of you can climb?" Steve says.

Loki can. Bruce probably can too, but Bruce's hand is broken and the trees around them are either saplings, unfit for anything, or must be climbed high to reach the concealing foliage. No mere scramble will do. Bruce will not be able to do it quickly, and Loki has neither rope nor dagger. He cannot carry him.

He would say so, but he suspects that Bruce will feel guilty if he says that he is only staying on the ground to remain with him.

"I cannot climb well," he lies instead, "I could _try_ though, if you needed it. I _might_ not fall."

He has overdone it, slightly, but it doesn't matter. Both Steve and Bruce are as trusting as Thor.

Sure enough, Bruce frowns at him, concerned.

"The undergrowth is fine," he says, "I can't climb either, and it'll be easier to run from there if things do go wrong, and less embarrassing for us if they don't."

True enough, he supposes. He hopes they don't have infrared sensors.

"I shall hide with you then, Bruce."

Bruce says something to that, he thinks. He does not hear it. The approaching engines are roaring above them now, and Loki can hear nothing past their loudness. They are hovering, he thinks, because the trees above them are shaking in the wind of it, and the noise does not fade. If he only had a knife— but he doesn't, of course.

Bruce moves, retreating, and Loki follows him into the darkness.

There are lights spearing the darkness; above them, around them, and they hide behind tree trunks to avoid the pale beams.

It is like dodging arrows on a battlefield. Fun, really.

If this is Tony or SHIELD and Thor is there with them, he will probably laugh at him for this. Loki feels like laughing now. He suspects it is not a good sign.

When this is done, he will sleep for a day. No, a _week_. And he will do so alone, where none can see his nightmares.

They halt soon enough, hiding in the shade of a towering conifer. It is not far enough away if anything goes poorly, but Loki is not willing to lose sight or sound of Steve and Bruce does not protest the action. Loki is not sure why. Possibly, Bruce's arm is hurting him again. Possibly, he is simply optimistic that they do not need to.

Possibly—

He is overthinking this. None of it matters.

Nothing does now, save waiting.

Alone, near the fire, Steve shades his eyes and stares upwards at the shining sky.

OoOoOoOoO

Tony doesn't call Natasha before he leaves _._

If any of Polt's agents are still around to break his encryption, he doesn't want them finding out he and Thor are on their way.

He leaves Pepper in charge of operation distraction, which means that she is fielding all calls from SHIELD or the press or anyone else who needs to think they're home, and staying alive. Jarvis is in charge of making sure nothing happens to her. Tony likes to think he's also helping, at least in spirit. He's left a suit there for her to get out in if she needs to, and his armour _looks_ and sounds the same when his faceplate is down regardless of if he's in it or not. There's a fairly good chance that Jarvis'll pass as him at least for a few hours. Maybe more. Especially if it keeps on moving, and talking to Pepper.

It's not a great plan, and it hinges a lot on SHIELD having dealt with any people or cameras watching the apartment, but it's passable.

It's _decent,_ and decent is all he needs right now.

Loki would hate it, but it's more than good enough for Thor.

Which is why they're flying high now, lost in the storm clouds, in a silent race against time, against Polt, and maybe also against Thor because there is such a thing as professional pride and Tony is _not_ going slower than a guy attached to a flying hammer.

"Has Jarvis found any other evidence of my brother or Jane?" Thor says once.

"No. There's evidence of some sort of aircraft in the area though. Hard to ID it, but I don't think it's SHIELD. No one's listed there as being sent."

"Polt?" Thor asks, concerned.

"Maybe. Maybe not. It's a common enough flight path. Planes have been going over fairly regularly."

"But it could be."

"Help me out a little. I'm trying to stay optimistic here."

Thor makes a disgusted noise that's pure Loki, and keeps flying.

Two hours, twenty five minutes. Then they'll get there.

He just hopes Loki and Bruce and Steve are alive for them when they do.


	41. Cat and Mouse

Steve's definition of "Let me see what they're after first," it turns out, is not the same as Loki's.

Loki's definition of this phrase involves Steve waiting near the fire where he can see him for whoever this is to approach. It is a sensible plan, Loki thinks. If it is SHIELD or anyone else who is not their enemy, Steve can welcome them properly and not try to punch them or club them with a brand from the fire. If those who have come _do_ serve Polt, here is as good as any other place to ask what they have come for or to kill them. To do both, even. _He_ would.

There is the flaw, of course, that the roar of the engines above them means that Steve will have to shout loudly to be heard and may have difficulty hearing any reply, and also that they may fire from a distance or fail to approach at all, but these are _small_ flaws.

Loki considers that a moment, objectively.

 _Medium_ -sized flaws, then.

But they are not large enough to justify what Steve is doing instead.

Because Steve isn't waiting. He's not, now, remaining near the fire at all.

No, Steve is leaping upwards, latching onto a tree-branch, and he's not stopping. He's climbing, swift and sure, and he is _swinging out of sight_.

Loki half-steps out to follow him, instinct overriding common sense, and barely manages to jerk backwards in time to avoid the sweeping searchlight. The bark of the tree-trunk bites into his back where he is pressed against it, flattening himself against it to escape the brightness.

Loki sneers at it. Sneers at the light. Sneers at everything and at himself most of all, because this fear is _unworthy_ of him.

He _knows_ Steve is a warrior and he _knows_ that he is skilled. Of course Steve has a plan. Of course he'd _had_ one that Loki had been too busy _assuming_ to actually _ask_ for. Steve's plans are bold, true, and reckless, but that does not mean they do not exist, or work. He had managed to contain the Chitauri with his tactics, had he not? He had contained them until containment ceased to matter, when Tony had so spectacularly slaughtered them all. What had he hoped to accomplish, stepping out so carelessly? Another collapse? Another wretched, _pointless_ fit, whining on the ground, leaving Bruce defenceless?

His lip curls further, as the light passes them.

Small wonder Bruce thinks he courts pain, when he keeps making errors such as these.

Abruptly he becomes aware that Bruce is retreating once more, moving into the deeper shadow of the trees.

Reluctantly, Loki follows. He knows it is wiser.

Steve is gone, and until they know whether those who have come are friend or foe, the further they are from the fire the better off they will be. Steve will be able to find them. Of course Steve will find them, when he knows the direction in which they left.

Half a minute later, the searchlight swings round again and once more they hide.

Loki tries not to look at it directly. Tempting though it is to better see the area that surrounds them, he needs his eyes to stay adjusted to the dark.

He wonders what they would do if they did see him.

Nothing good, probably.

Whoever this is, it is not Tony or Thor. Both of them would have landed by now.

A sharp stub of a branch jabs into his back, and ruthlessly he snaps it off. Why not? It is not as though he will be heard. Even to him, the action is noiseless in the roar that surrounds them. The sap of it is sticky against his fingers, but he doesn't drop the stick. The wood is green, but the end of it is jagged when he runs the pad of his thumb against it to test it. Jagged enough to double as a weapon, if they are found and he can get close enough to ram it through someone's eye. He _can_ snap their necks if they are mortal, of course, but snapping necks is something he prefers to leave to Thor.

He hides his makeshift weapon up his sleeve, where he can retrieve it if he needs to.

The light passes.

Are the gaps between them lasting longer, or is it merely him?

There is a rustle in the trees above them, and instinctively Loki steps backward, forcing Bruce behind him. His blood pounds in his ears, but the adrenaline is back, lending him its strength. So long as he remembers himself and does not draw on his magic, he should be fine. He is fine. He narrows his eyes, scanning the branches.

And then Steve is dropping down to land beside him, and something— relief, perhaps— explodes inside. It passes swiftly enough. Steve's eyes are serious. His mouth moves, and Loki cannot make out the words.

This is not— _someone,_ he catches, but _who_ is it not?

He would ask Steve to shout, but that he is not doing this already suggests that there is someone here he does not want to hear them.

Not friends, then.

And then Steve is kneeling, reaching for a twig and scratching out the words in the dirt.

It is dark, but Loki's eyesight is good. It is usually good, except when it isn't, and that thought makes no sense at all. He dismisses it, and waits for Steve to finish.

Beside him, Bruce kneels squinting, trying to read in the torpid moonlight.

A few seconds later, Steve finishes, and—ah.

 _Polt's men,_ Steve has written, eyes on Loki, _Looking for you_.

Loki is not surprised, really. He'd thought they might be after him.

There is a shortage of compelling reasons to target Bruce now he is not near a city, and there were _never_ any good reasons to target Steve.

He kneels too, to scratch out his own reply.

_The serum or revenge?_

_The serum,_ Steve writes.

Loki scowls. He blames Tony for this. Tony or Thor.

One of them must have told the truth because Pepper is too sensible to do anything of the kind and Loki remembers deliberately telling Fury that Tony had the serum to _avoid_ people targeting him _._ When they get back, he will have _words_ with whichever of them is responsible for allowing that piece of information to slip.

 _Do we run?_ Bruce writes wonkily.

Steve shakes his head.

_Heard them. In contact with another Quinjet—_

They're out of space, and Steve must pause to rub out their messages before continuing, writing over the now-blank ground.

 _—via vid feed. Got Jane Foster_. _Hostage._

Loki stiffens. He doesn't like Jane. He's _never_ liked Jane.

Somehow, he doubts Steve will find this is a compelling enough reason to allow her to die.

Sure enough, Steve's face is serious with concern as he adds:

_We need to save her._

It's Loki's turn to wipe the dirt clean now. He has no gloves, but fortunately his hands are so filthy already that it hardly makes a difference.

Once he has done so, he scratches out, albeit reluctantly:

_How?_

OoOoOoOoO

They're a quarter of an hour into the flight when Pepper calls them.

Tony's honestly starting to resent being part-way through flights when people call him, but he answers anyway. A causal check with Jarvis says that, yes, this _is_ her, and Pepper wouldn't call if she didn't think it was important. Sure enough, when she speaks her tone is serious.

"It's Clint," she says, "They've managed to find a visual match for Loki."

"Where?" Thor demands.

"India. Near the Taj Mahal."

The bubble of hope in Tony's chest pops.

"Bullshit," he frowns, "Loki's never been there."

"I know that," Pepper says, "And Clint knows that and _you_ know that. But Polt doesn't, and there's also the issue that Loki's dressed differently to how he was four hours ago and doesn't look sick at all. Clint's worried they're changing tactics. He said he thinks they're trying to draw SHIELD off by sending their, their _shapeshifters,_ off to draw out the rescue teams. That or normal agents with the digital face-mask prototype technology that SHIELD has been developing."

"... I hate spy games," Tony groans.

It's true. His brain just isn't _built_ for them.

Still, he doubts it will make much of a difference for him. He's monitoring three places. SHIELD, poor bastards, are stuck monitoring the world. In fact, if he thinks of it in an optimistic light, the fact that Jarvis hasn't picked up anything is a good sign.

Polt's agents wouldn't try to draw a rescue team out to where Loki actually was, right?

Yes, he tells himself firmly. He's right. He _knows_ Loki.

Even if the demigod was there, there's no way he'd be there alone.

He needs to invent a way to detect this sort of technology though. He's getting tired of wondering if the people he's talking to are actually them.

"Do they know yet where Jane is?" Thor asks.

"No," Pepper says, "Not yet. I'm sorry, Thor."

They're all sorry, Tony thinks. He's getting sick of being sorry, too. He just wants everyone to be _found_.

"So basically, SHIELD has nothing for us, they're still working on squashing Polt because there's more of Polt to squash than they thought there was, and if we see Loki on satellite anywhere we should seriously consider ignoring it unless Steve and Bruce are with him because it's probably a trap and they're probably trying to distract us."

"That's right," Pepper says.

She sounds like she's got a headache.

Once everything's done, Tony predicts that she'll lock herself alone in a bathroom somewhere and have a long cry.

That, or bury herself in tea and paperwork.

"It's going to be fine," he tells her. "We've got this. Thor and I have got this."

"I know. Be careful, Tony. I don't want them finding _you_ again too."

OoOoOoOoO

 _We need to trace the signal to this Quinjet_. _Do that, and we find Jane._

Steve's 'how', Loki thinks, is extremely optimistic.

It fails to consider the many agents who will try to stop them, and it fails to consider the possibility that even if they _could_ trace the signal, the agents who hold Jane might detect them trying and decide to cut both their losses and her throat, and run. He voices neither concern. The noise above him, the lights around him, grate at him, whispering that he does not have time to quibble at possibilities like these. It is not as if he truly _cares_ if they fail to save Jane Foster.

 _How?_ he writes instead, _We are not Jarvis._

 _Quinjet. It'll have a comm. system,_ Steve returns. _We're going to get to it._

The plan is not terrible, when one considers the lack of time they have spent preparing it.

That, Loki decides, trying subtly to shift himself into a spot where the sticks beneath him _don't_ jab into his knees, is the best that can probably be said about it.

 _And then?_ he writes.

 _We steal the thing_ , Steve writes back, eyes bright _. Leave them stranded._

Loki refuses to be infected by this confidence. He tilts his head slightly to one side, and allows his gaze to rest pointedly on the bloodstain on Steve's leg.

_And if they have shapeshifters?_

Steve points again to 'stranded' and Loki frowns, unimpressed.

This plan has more holes in it than one of the sailor's nets Ran was always so fond of weaving.

 _If they're carrying it, I'm going to try using their poison,_ Steve adds, and oh, oh that _is_ clever, Loki allows.

To use their own weapons against them is an irony he will enjoy, if they can do this.

That it will also hurt them as he _wants_ them to hurt, well...

He fights the urge to smile.

Inadequate though it is, he thinks he almost _likes_ this plan. Perhaps he has been too harsh on it. Perhaps Steve _will_ manage to save Jane after all. If they can reach Tony, Thor will rescue Jane, this he does know. Thor usually manages to protect what he wants to protect, so long as he is aware that he needs to, and Thor can travel at speeds far faster than any mortal aircraft. The fact that the agents have her still suggests that he simply does not know she _is_ in danger, that is all. That, or where. One call, then, is _all_ they need to do before Tony will trace her and she will be rescued and no longer in the way. And then… what?

Hunting down more agents? Killing Polt? Going home?

He doesn't know.

Ice-cream, maybe.

 _How do I get on it? Climb?_ Bruce writes.

 _The Quinjet's_ —

A sapling moves a few dozen yards away, too sharply to be the wind.

Loki freezes, eyes tracking the movement. Beside him, Steve drags his hand sideways, wiping the messages off the churned up ground.

Bruce frowns at both of them, silently questioning.

And then a dark shape, a large cat of some sort, is leaping out and disappearing off into the night, and slowly, slowly, Loki forces his fingers to open. To relax, and to slide his makeshift weapon back inside his sleeve. Steve looks relieved, and Loki sends him a sour look. He isn't sure why. Because Steve didn't look like a fool, perhaps. It vanishes when Steve reaches into his boot and passes him a small dagger, short, sharp and balanced for throwing.

Why is he surprised? Why is he _always_ surprised when any of them offer what he needs without forcing him to ask?

It is not as though no one ever used to on quests or in Asgard before.

Steve is writing again, he realises abruptly.

Something about the Quinjet above them being open at the back, and being connected with ropes to the ground.

He ignores it.

There is... something.

His skin itches; too tight, too hot, and he clenches his fingers more tightly about his dagger.

He feels like— Like he is being _watched._

By the cat? Perhaps. Or perhaps by Heimdall. And yet, he thinks not.

Something disturbed the beast. Something is there.

Noiselessly, he slips away from the protection of Steve and into the shadows.

He makes it perhaps one step before Steve glances up at him, one brow rising interrogatively.

"I am finding a stone," Loki lies, "To sharpen my dagger on. It is blunt."

Steve doesn't look like he hears much of that. Nor does he look like he believes him.

" _—_ 's fine _—_ oki."

Loki steps forward, closer to him.

His toe scratches on the ground, between them: _I am killing a rat._

He keeps his face indifferent, and his eyes empty.

"I will be back in two minutes," Loki says, aloud.

Steve hesitates, then nods.

"Don't _—_ too long _—_ kay?"

_Do you need me?_

_No_ , Loki writes.

If Steve comes too, he doubts whoever is watching them will stay to meet them.

Stepping away, he dusts his hands off against his knees, then circles around the tree to slip into the shadows. He wants to take them by surprise, after all, and he cannot do that if he goes directly for them. A coward's tactic, perhaps, to hide like this, but hiding is what he has been doing since he first was freed. He does not care enough for fairness to change that now. He is thankful for his bare feet and for the noise above them as he moves. He can feel the twigs beneath his feet before he snaps them, and even when he missteps the noise above him is loud enough to mask most of it. To mask, too, the rustling of the leaves he cannot help moving as he slips past them. He makes sure he does not move the branches.

If he is right and someone is here, that will be too obvious a tell.

He hears the agent before he sees him.

"Orders?" the agent is saying, "No _—_ nothing yet. Just hiding on the ground, and running. I can't _—_ no, not without backup _—_ "

Loki slips closer. If he has a flashlight, the agent is not using it. His silhouette is all Loki can see in the darkness.

"No _—_ yes, I'm aware he's _—_ I can't get a clean shot in this light, I need _—_ I don't give a flying _fuck_ if you want to secure the area first before you send more down, two of us _aren't_ enough _—_ because he's got _magic_ is why, and even when I'm _not_ lumped with a human I'm barely even with _Captain America—"_

Loki halts. Suddenly, the plan to slit their throat from behind no longer looks so appealing.

He steps backwards.

The agent senses _—_ something, because he's turning, suddenly, and he _does_ have a flashlight because he is using it to spear the darkness, and Loki is leaping, bare seconds before it strikes where he had been, and landing on what seems almost to be a _nest_ of sticks, or a trap of them, and he barely has time to throw himself behind another tree before the shapeshifter is bending to examine what turns out to be a snapped branch on the ground.

His toes curl into the soil, and his fingers clench.

So much for surprise. He can hear the agent moving forward.

He will find him, Loki knows. In moments, he will circle the tree and find him.

This will not do.

He must find some way to best him.

Steve's plan is his best chance, he thinks. He has no explosives and he doubts this agent carries them either, but he will carry the poison. He _must_ carry it. All of them have this far. Loki merely needs to find some way of stealing this from him before he can master himself enough to stop him. He will need time, true, to find it, but he knows how to buy himself at least a little. He just hopes that Steve's dagger is capable of hurting them _enough_ to buy him the seconds he needs for this to work.

Not a good plan, perhaps, but no worse than the rest of it. It will do.

It must do.

It is that or calling as loudly as he can for Steve.

Loki waits until the agent circles around the tree trunk, light in hand.

When he sees him, the agent's eyes widen and he goes for the gun in his left holster. Too late, because Loki is already moving, is already leaping forward and slamming Steve's dagger into him, forcing it through the pupil of his left eye and through to the brain beneath it, burying it to the hilt. The agent screams, and closes one hand about the dagger's hilt to wrench it out again and the other about Loki's throat. Loki allows the move, already closing his hand about the hilt of the gun his enemy had reached for, hoping, _counting,_ on him having reached for the weapon most capable of downing him. And then he's being tossed back against the ground hard enough to bruise, and he rolls aside just in time to avoid the dagger that is tossed after him, aimed straight at his side.

It's amusing, really. They do seem to _like_ aiming there.

The agent reaches for his earpiece, his eye already reforming. To tell his superiors he has found Loki? To request aid?

Loki doesn't know. He does not give the agent the chance to finish his gesture.

He is no expert in guns, but he has seen movies and to drag the top part back and pull the trigger takes no time to work out at all.

Moments later, three darts of poison are buried in the agent's side.

Loki does not know what he expects next. Screaming, maybe. Or to find that he picked the wrong gun.

Instead, the agent collapses as though he's been struck by lightning, twitching and frothing at the mouth. He stills a few seconds later, and doesn't rise.

Is this a trick?

Gingerly, Loki bends and feels his throat.

Dead. The eye is not reforming, and its socket is filling now with blood.

The doses in these darts must be large, if they are lethal so quickly. Loki eyes the body a moment, frowning. It is a pity that this race, whatever it is, does not revert _back_ to its true form when it dies. They are a race worthy of study, if they can toss him aside so easily. He flexes the stiffness from his fingers, and wipes the blood from them onto his shirt. He hopes, fleetingly, that Tony does not like these clothes.

Loki pockets the gun. Four rounds left.

That, too, will not do.

He drags the agent's body around behind the tree, where the searchlights cannot easily see it.

Then he begins searching the agent's pockets, his clothes. Steve and Bruce will be waiting, but they can wait a little longer for this. He needs more of the darts. A second gun, even, if he is lucky. Polt's agents had known they would be fighting enemies who would best be defeated by poison like this. Surely they did not carry just one weapon with seven rounds to deal with all three of them? Even if all of them have done so, the thought is _insulting._

He finds a wallet, with a little of the plastic paper that passes for money here in Midgard, and dozen or so plastic cards. Finds a normal gun, and two spare knives inside matching wrist-sheathes. Finds some supplies, of the sort Steve carries, and a small bottle of water.

He keeps the water, and the money.

There is a rectangular shaped bulge in the agent's pocket. A case?

He reaches into the pocket, and it is _not_ a case. It is _—_ his fingers tighten, convulsively. A phone?

But _why_? Why, when to carry this is to risk him stealing it? Using it?

Carelessness? Stupidity? Or is it a trap, to trace them should they find it or use it?

He turns it on anyway. Fiddles, a moment, with the settings and finds the one that controls the GPS tracking that will tell the satellites where he is.

It is already off. Not a trap, then.

Or if it is, it is a poor one.

There is a red circle near a white envelope, and another near the square that says SMS. Loki taps them.

The texts are nothing that matter. A notice that this agent's credit will expire if he does not top it up again soon; a message, offering a special deal on interest rates. An SMS from an unknown number, who failed to leave a message. Not a professional phone, then, unless this agent is very unprofessional indeed. The emails, too, mean nothing to him. He has sent few, and few have been sent in return, at least on this account. There are several about job opportunities though, these past few weeks. Mostly telling him he has not got them, though there is one from the security branch of the Latverian Embassy telling him he has been shortlisted.

Loki hesitates, eying the device.

Then he wipes the last remnants of eyeball off Steve's knife onto the agent's shirt, and rises, retreating a few dozen yards away.

The noise above him is loud, but not so loud that he cannot hear. Perhaps he should wait for Steve to make this call properly, but he will not.

This phone is no trap.

The agents searching for him have no reason to trace this call. Not yet. He may have longer before they guess if this agent's phone was not supposed to be here, or less if like Barton and Romanoff, all of them carry them on missions and it is expected that his stealing them will be a danger. But either way, he has until then to do with this phone whatever he chooses. If they _do_ guess... He isn't sure. Either the satellites that give reception from this place will be interfered with, or something unpleasant will happen to Jane. Possibly, probably, both. He will not wait.

Even if they _do_ take the Quinjet, it's communications line will be no safer than this.

There is no better time to call Tony than now.

OoOoOoOoO

At first, Tony thinks it might be Pepper calling him again, or Clint.

It's not. It's a number he doesn't recognise, and half of him is tempted not to take the call.

It can't be SHIELD because they'd go through Pepper, and he's having a blank right now on anyone else he'd actually _like_ to hear from right now. The most likely suspect is one of Polt's not-so-arrested agents, and he doesn't really want to talk to them right now. If he doesn't answer, he can't be threatened and he can't be guilted into doing whatever it is Polt's surviving agents want him to do.

On the other hand... It might be someone important. There's a chance, right? And he's always been fairly okay at resisting guilt, unless it's being directed at him by Pepper, Steve or certain Norse demigods. Dealing with jilted girlfriends, one night stands, and a largely hostile media for twenty-odd years has had that effect on him. He reroutes it to the Tower first though. No reason to make it easy for whoever this is to work out he's not at home.

Then he takes the call. There's a dull roar in the background, and Tony frowns.

This had _better_ not be a sales call from Delphi.

"Stark speaking. Who is this?" he says.

"Tony?" someone says, on the other end.

They sound like Loki and Tony raises an eyebrow because are they kidding him? Loki doesn't have a phone. If he was conscious, he'd be using magic to call them, not this.

This is a mundane triviality for him now, isn't it? Or whatever the phrase had been.

Still, the guy who wasn't Clint tried it. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised they're using the same trick twice.

"If you're Loki, I want to talk to Bruce or Steve."

"They are not _with_ me just now."

Figures. Tony makes a disgusted noise.

"What is it?" Thor asks.

"Some guy trying to trick me into thinking he's Loki," Tony says dismissively.

"I _am_ Loki," whoever it is hisses.

"And I'm the President. Pull the other one. It's got bells on it."

"I am _not_ a shapeshifter, Tony. Stop _wasting my time_ or I swear by the Norns I will take a _knife_ to your Roadster. We need you to _help_ us."

It _sounds_ like Loki, certainly. Especially now he's using whole phrases. Not that Loki ever made a habit, exactly, of losing his temper at Tony or threatening him, but he's done it often enough in front of him that he can kind of see the flared nostrils and thin lips and flashing eyes before him, if he tries to picture it.

Still, no Steve, no Bruce and no magic. He needs a second opinion. He switches the call across to Thor's audio input too.

Apparently, the guy who might be Loki is having similar ideas.

"Allow me to talk to Thor," he demands.

"Done," Tony tells him. "Two seconds ago, actually."

"Odinson? When we were fifty—"

"Why am I Odinson now?" Thor complains, "But a moment ago, you called me Thor."

" _When we were fifty_ ," the guy who Tony's growing uncomfortably certain now _might_ be Loki says again, sounding livid, "You used to allow me to hide with you whenever I dreamed of Jotunheim. You told me that the monsters would never find me, and that even if they did, you would slaughter them all for me because they could not stand against the might of the eldest son of Odin. And you always promised to stay awake, to guard me from them and not _once_ , during those nights, did you ever break your word. Am I Loki?"

"You are," Thor says, a bit mistily, "You used to like putting your feet against my calves. They were always frozen, and I always hated it."

"I know," Loki says, "You were warm, and it amused me when you shouted. Are you satisfied, Tony?"

"... Yes. Sorry?" Tony offers, a bit sheepishly. Then: "You weren't serious about the Roadster, were you?"

"... I am still deciding that," Loki says ominously, "But I did not call you to threaten you or because I wanted to exchange _pointless_ remembrances of the past. I _called_ because we have a problem. A small but irritating problem called Jane Foster."

"What do you know of that?" Thor demands.

"Not as much as I would like. We are in New Mexico, in the _—_ "

" _—_ Cibola Forest?" Tony says.

"... Yes," Loki says.

Bingo. Oh yeah, Tony's still got it.

"Is it wise to share that? Polt's men may be listening," Thor says.

"Perhaps. But they have already found us. What difference can it make?"

_"Shit."_

"We're dealing with them, Tony," Loki says, "Or, well. Steve and I are. Our problem is Foster. She is their hostage. Steve wants to save her."

"Only Steve?" Thor says accusingly.

"Bruce too," Loki allows coolly.

"Where is she?" Tony asks.

"I do not know. They are communicating though, with the Quinjet above us. We were hoping _— Steve_ was hoping _—_ you might be able to trace the signal."

"Objection. Too obvious. They'll be rerouting it. They have to know you'll be trying for that," Tony says.

"Do you have a _better_ plan?" Loki snaps.

"Do I _need_ to have a better plan to recognise a bad one?"

"It might help me _—_ "

There's a sudden scream, abruptly cut off.

" _—_ To know what to do next if you're _not_ going to help," Loki says.

"What _was_ that?" Tony demands.

"Someone I _sincerely_ hope possesses a gun loaded with venom darts, because otherwise I have just _wasted_ two of them on a human," Loki says, sounding peeved.

"We will help you, brother," Thor says, apparently more used to random people screaming when he's chatting than Tony is, "Your plan is fine."

Thor doesn't even sound like he's lying, which is, frankly, disturbing.

"It is Steve's plan, not mine," Loki says firmly, "And it is not. If you do intend to follow it, I suggest you do so swiftly. They will know soon enough that I have contacted you. They may even know now." There's a slight moment of hesitation. Then: "If I can, I will stall to prolong the connection if we do get to their ship, but I am not sure how long I can last."

The job of tracing frequencies in a forest as close to Albuquerque as this one is isn't easy, but Tony _supposes_ maybe, just maybe, if whoever is holding Jane keeps up the connection long enough, he can probably do it. Assuming they don't kill her first, and assuming they haven't rerouted the signal somewhere as a distraction, but that's something he can probably also deal with. Or, well, Jarvis, but he wrote Jarvis so it's still technically him. Full credit, and all that jazz.

"I'll see what I can do," Tony says reluctantly. "Try not to get stabbed again, okay?"

Loki laughs sharply.

"Your faith _overwhelms_ me, Tony."

"Yeah, well, just make sure whoever was screaming there doesn't overwhelm you too."

"They will not. They are dead."

Right. That's good, Tony supposes.

"Farewell then," Loki says, at last, "I wish you luck. And... Odinson? If you do find her, I would advise that you act swiftly if you wish to save her. They do not play fairly, and I doubt they will hesitate to kill her if they think they will not win this game."

"I will do so," Thor says.

And then, before Loki can cut the call, Thor adds:

"Brother? Tell... Steve, that I thank him."


	42. Deception

That their plan is _not_ in tatters is something of a shock, Loki thinks.

He had thought that the combination of being seen calling Tony and the bodies of the two agents on the ground would be a bad one. That it would alert his enemies to the fact that he now has the _power_ to kill them, and is planning both an escape and a rescue, and that this in turn would make both the agents here and the ones who hold Jane too wary for Steve's plan to stand any chance of success.

In actuality, all it has done is send every available agent from the ship swarming to the ground in a frenzied search for them.

He had known they were desperate before, but this...

He can see them, beneath him, spreading out with their flashlights, their guns.

It is like stirring an ant's nest.

There are lucky the agents are still spreading _outwards_ and do not seem to suspect that they are working their way back _towards_ the Quinjet instead of fleeing from it.

Loki wonders if he should be flattered, that his enemies have so severely overestimated his common sense.

They are climbing now, Steve, Bruce and himself. They have been since he had returned and told them the good news: that he has called Tony and now has two weapons capable of killing shapeshifters, and the bad news: that there are two bodies down there to mark their location, only two darts are _left_ in one of their weapons, and he thinks they _know_ he has called Tony. The phone he has abandoned, of course, in the agent's pocket, for fear that they may yet have some way of tracing it, and the card inside it he has snapped in two. Small point in allowing them to see what he did with it when he had used it, if he is wrong and they have not guessed.

They are high up now, concealed by the foliage of the conifers.

Steve is climbing upwards, above Loki, like the act is no effort at all, keeping pace with and steadying Bruce. Loki follows beneath, silently loathing each puddle of sap he sticks his fingers and toes in, and each gust of wind that shakes the branches beneath him. He envies Steve, just a little. He has never liked climbing.

A part of him wonders why no one is yet threatening them via broadcasts, now they know they are here.

He knows they can. Romanoff had done so in Germany, he recalls.

But perhaps it is just that they know him well enough to suspect that he doesn't care enough for Jane for that to work.

They climb ten yards, twenty, thirty.

Climb across the interlocking branches that span the trees like bridges.

He can see the ropes now, that connect the Quinjet to the ground. They're guarded, and there are only two of them, but the guards are stationed on the back of the Quinjet, not the ground. Unwise of them. They don't get the chance to do more than curse before Steve has leaped, landed beside them, and slammed their faces into the metal wall. They're human, Loki decides. They collapse, and no shapeshifter would collapse from that.

"I'm never going to make that," Bruce shouts, into his ear.

Loki ignores him, eyes on Steve.

There is another agent, behind them, on the inside, standing near a black screen that faces the wall.

He says something _—_ some threat, Loki thinks, from his face and the cold expectation there _—_ but Steve does not hesitate. He draws one of their stolen guns and fires, twice. The agent jerks aside just in time to avoid them, throwing himself to the side. Steve tosses aside the empty gun, and then he's bending down beside the bodies of the unconscious agents to search them and the agent's face is twisting with fury, with hate and with _fear._ Drawing his own gun, he fires twice, and hits the body Steve raises just in time as a shield, and then he's charging, leaping, hands shifting into claws, skin going thick and grey and _—_

Steve dives backwards beneath him, kicking upwards with both legs as the agent sails over him, sending him toppling off-balance over the edge to fall crashing, cursing to the forest floor.

Loki grins, despite himself.

Personally, he would have fired more carefully and used the second of their stolen guns to kill the shapeshifter, but he rather _likes_ the sheer _audacity_ of Steve's methods.

Steve is bending down to examine the collapsed humans again now, and taking another of their guns. Poison ones, or the normal sort?

Loki doesn't know. He cannot tell from here.

And then Steve is throwing himself down, and then to the side, as two darts slice into the flooring where he had been.

"They're in the trees!" someone shouts from beneath them. "The bastards are in the trees! They're trying to pull a fucking _Sparrow_ on us!"

They are not talking about the bird, Loki suspects, but he has not the time to try to determine their meaning. He is out of time.

He reaches for Bruce, and lifts him.

"Wha _—_?" Bruce starts

He is surprisingly light, for someone who holds the Hulk inside him.

Loki wonders, fleetingly, how that _works._

But the light is on them now, and Steve is in the back of the Quinjet, dealing with the pilots, and he does not have time for this. Has no time for anything, really.

Loki jumps. Jumps, and lands, and kicks the ropes free from the edge even before he sets Bruce down on the metal deck beneath them.

Then he twists around, to the cockpit, where Steve is _—_

Where Steve is fine.

He has a cut across his cheek, but the pilots look like they are dead so it is probably fair.

Both of them have three darts in their chests.

Bruce hits something, and most of the lights turn off and the back of the Quinjet begins to close.

And then the pitch of the engines is changing, and both Bruce and Loki are steadying themselves against the railing and they're lurching upwards, away from the tree-tops. Bullets hiss past them, close but not close _enough_. They are leaving. They have _won_.

They have won, and he has not felt such joy, such triumph since _—_

He doesn't know. Since he teleported, perhaps, but he cannot remember the nearest time before.

But now it is time for the next part of the plan. The part that will mean nothing if he gets it wrong, but that Steve is trusting him to get right.

Steve, and Thor.

He heads for the video screen, which seems to be the black stand in a corner near the opposite wall. It's the only spot still lit. A lamp shines dully from the roof, and the screen is the size of one of Tony's laptop displays. It's set up on a stand facing the back wall, possibly so that the agents monitoring it could see the whole of the back of the Quinjet. Loki isn't sure. But it is on, which means that they are waiting for someone to threaten. That they _expect_ someone to appear before them to _be_ threatened. An arrogant move, Loki thinks, but an expected one, when they need the serum as much as they do. He can use this.

He steps in the line of his own end of the camera.

He is unremarkable, the man who threatens Jane; dark haired, pale-skinned and wearing a suit. A typical agent. He has a gun pressed against the side of Jane's head.

The mortal herself looks like she is trying _not_ to look terrified, and doing a rather poor job of it. Her eyes are dark with fear, and her hand clenches and unclenches rapidly about the edge of the seat where the agent next to her cannot see. The possibility that she is a shapeshifter occurs only to be dismissed. He is good at picking lies, when he remembers to try, and he is trying now. There is no lie in her eyes. Loki eyes her dispassionately, and wonders what Thor sees in her.

A moment later, he glances up at the agent, smiling pleasantly.

"I would prefer it if you did not pull that trigger. Thor will kill me if she dies."

He is aware he does not look the part of a diplomat, but that does not stop the flash of irritation from rushing through him when the agent snorts at him.

Possibly, he should have chosen a better reason for this than Thor.

"Land the Quinjet," the agent orders.

"Why?" Loki asks, mildly.

He thinks Jane flinches at that, just slightly.

"Why? Because if you don't land your plane _right now_ , I'll shoot her."

It's Loki's turn to snort now.

"Forgive me, but do you think me a _child,_ that I would believe that lie? You will not kill her. To do would be the action of a fool, when she is the only chance you have left of bargaining with me for the serum. And we both know that that is what you want."

The agent cocks his gun.

"She's not much of a bargaining chip if you won't negotiate for her."

Loki raises both hands placatingly.

"I never said that I would not negotiate. As I said, Thor will undoubtedly kill me if she dies, and I rather like living."

Jane looks up at him then, hope flickering in her eyes.

Loki ignores her.

"Well?"

"Well what? So far as I can see, you're not landing," the agent says flatly.

"I will not land because I am not a _fool._ To land is to invite your friends to find me and take the serum from me and leave me with nothing but _more_ threats. I will negotiate for Foster, not for that."

"I'm not dumb, Loki. You don't want us getting the serum back. The _moment_ you get Foster, you'll double-cross us."

Loki narrows his eyes.

"You are certainly not so dull as I would _like_ you to be."

The agent's mouth tightens.

"In truth, you would have been right an hour ago," Loki says, leaning forward and making a subtle, swirling motion with one hand, "But now that _Thor_ is back... well. I find myself in need of a way to regain his favour. He never quite _forgave_ me for trying to break his favourite realm, you see. Once I have it, I will no longer require the serum because I will no longer require the goodwill of the Avengers to protect me in this place. I will no longer need to stay here, in exile, and it will not matter to me if you and SHIELD tear each other apart. In fact, I think might I prefer it that way."

"Which they're not upset about at all, naturally."

"They cannot hear us," Loki says, carelessly dismissive, "Only _I_ can hear you, on this ship. What spell did you _think_ I was casting?"

Across the ship, Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.

Loki ignores him too.

"Well?" he persists, "Our need is mutual, and I have not the power to mimic the radiation that your serum emits. By all means, test it before we make the exchange, but that exchange _will_ take place. The serum for the girl, and perhaps a good spot for me to sit and watch this realm tear itself apart."

The agent's eyes narrow dangerously.

"And what makes you think I'd accept that?"

Loki smiles. He doesn't bother replying. Instead, he allows the agent to read whatever he wants to read in his eyes.

"You're brighter than you used to be," the agent scowls, slowly lowering his gun.

"I assure you, I am as bright now as I ever was."

"You know, there are other things I could do to her, that don't involve killing her, if you don't land. Things that _won't_ leave me without any leverage."

The agents hands rest on Jane's shoulder's, lingering. Jane goes very still.

Loki forces his eyes to remain indifferent, his posture to stay relaxed. If he is right, this is merely a test. They will not hurt her so long as he does not care. If hurting her will not move him, they will see no point in trying. He hopes he is not wrong. Thor might truly kill him, if he is.

"What a pity it is that my powers do not stretch to conjuration," he says, bored, examining the nails on the back of his hand, "I would have summoned myself a chair had I but known how much time you were planning to waste before you even started negotiating. That, or some device capable of turning this thing _off_ until you returned once more to matters in which I had the slightest shred of interest."

Abruptly the agent leans forward, slamming his fist against the desk.

"You heartless, arrogant _bastard."_

"That is _exactly_ what I am," Loki agrees, looking up again, eyes cold, "So do _not_ make the mistake of thinking that I care about the girl. She is nothing to me, save that Thor loves her enough to blame me for not saving her, and Thor will not blame me for anything save her death. He will continue to love her if you cut off all her fingers. He will continue to care if you make her bald and he will continue to care if you gouge out her eyes and _step_ on them. We have healers in Asgard who can fix all of that," a lie, but _he_ does not need to know that, "And he will continue to care if you have forced yourself upon her, because she is female and that _will not make her nothing._ The only thing he cannot fix is death. So do not waste my time with these childish games. I may need you, but you need me too, and you have more to lose than I. I will call your every bluff before you even once call mine."

The agent's face is twisting in fury now, and his eyes are burning.

Loki allows his smile to widen. Unwise though it probably is to provoke him like this, it is good to be able to taunt an enemy who so satisfyingly _reacts_.

He wonders if the agent carries the same venom as his friends had. Possibly. Probably. He decides to test the theory.

"But then, perhaps you _will_ waste your time and mine with torture after all. You do not seem to be very clever. You have not even _begun_ to negotiate an exchange point for the serum and her. Do you know, the shapeshifters _here_ were foolish enough to carry guns loaded with darts of the Chitauri's poison where even _Steve_ could steal them, when but three rounds of it are lethal to their kind. I wonder, are you as dull as they are?"

The agent's hand moves unconsciously towards a gun at his side, then twitches upwards.

Peripherally, he sees Jane stiffen. Her eyes are on the handle of it too and _—_ oh.

Oh, if she has the courage to do what he thinks she might, he might actually _like_ the little mortal.

Loki allows his smile to widen a little.

"Were they your leaders? I _do_ hope they were not your friends."

"My _friends_ and I," the agent hisses, "Are worth ten times what you are, you fucking asshole."

The agent's attention is on him fully now, and Loki keeps smiling and ignores the way Jane is turning just a bit more towards the agent next to her.

"I do hope you don't mean intellectually. After all, I have the serum and I am free. And you have _—_ oh yes. _Nothing._ Nothing save for one bargaining chip that you are failing spectacularly just now to use."

And _why_ are they failing to use it?

He wonders, suddenly, if they are being traced as surely as they are tracing this agent. That would account for much of this. It would be ironic indeed if _both_ of them are merely saying what they think they need to to prolong this connection. He is winning though. Their flight path is fast enough, erratic enough, to make catching up with them a challenge and predicting where they _will_ be nearly impossible.

Tony has had whole _minutes_ now, to find where this signal has come from, and Mjolnir can move impossibly fast when Thor needs her to and no obstacles lie in his path.

Thor will arrive at Jane's end to kill them long before this agent succeeds.

"You got lucky," the agent is sneering now, "You had _help_. You couldn't even lead an _invasion_ right. Hell, you can't even protect _yourself. Look_ at you. You look like you did in your _cell_ minus the broken bones and the bruising to the face. You know what? Since Thor _cares_ so much for Foster, why don't I call him now? Change our little deal? We'll get the serum _and_ you, and we can pick up where we left off right before your new buddies rescued you. Do you think Thor or _any_ of your precious new friends will want you more than a helpless, American woman when we propose the exchange?"

It is laughable that they think Steve would let them.

He wants this agent to _die_.

But that will happen soon enough. He allows his smile to slacken. Allows his eyes to go wide and dark with fury and, beneath it, uncertainty.

A moment later, all of it is banished, and he smiles.

"Perhaps, but fortunately for me, Thor has no phone. Do you think SHIELD or Tony would _truly_ pass on a message for you such as that?"

"Do you think they wouldn't? That they like you? That they'd _ever_ like you? You're chaotic, you're destructive and you're _evil_. It's your defining state. You think helping the Avengers even remotely makes up for what you did to New York? To Puente Antiguo? For everything you ever did before? You think that you're achieving some sort of redemption here? You're a _monster_. All you'll ever be is a _monster—_ "

At that moment, Jane moves, reaching down and grasping the handle of the gun.

The agent takes too long to realise what she is doing. By the time he twists towards her, she has already pointed it towards him and pulled the trigger. Twice.

Loki isn't sure if she is lucky, if the agent has left the thing readied to fire, or if someone has taught Jane Foster to fire a handgun at some point, but it works.

It works, and moments later, the agent is spasming and twitching and frothing on the ground.

Jane takes a half-step forward, as though she's considering kneeling down beside him. A useless move.

Loki frowns at her.

"I suggest you lock the door. Unless you are prepared to deal with the arrival of anyone else who is monitoring your room."

Mechanically, Jane does. She's keeps staring back at the dying thing. He's not sure why.

Something slams against the other side of the door.

It doesn't open.

The stunted tendril that is his reluctant respect for Jane Foster grows. Whatever she has done, it seems to be working.

"Thor is coming for you," Loki tells her idly. "We are tracing your location."

The agent gives one last choked gargle, clawing at his throat, and then stills.

Jane fails to look appropriately satisfied.

"I killed him. God I _killed_ him."

"I'm aware. Are you seeking praise for the act?" Loki asks her impatiently.

Jane glares at him. A moment later, she doubles over and vomits on the ground.

She is in shock, he decides. Her eyes are huge and her face is far too white. Loki isn't sure what to say. He can't even remember, now, who his first kill had been. A marauder he thinks, on Vanaheim, but he can't remember their face. They meant nothing to him, then or now. He can't remember a time when killing ever bothered him. All he's _ever_ minded about killing, really, are the consequences of the act for himself. He wonders if this sickness is something he is supposed to feel.

"You should probably find a vessel of some sort, if you intend to repeat that display," Loki says at last, with vague distaste.

"God you're a jerk," Jane says, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve.

"I have been called worse," Loki says indifferently.

"I can believe that."

"Mm. If the corpse bothers you, I suggest that you stop looking at it," Loki advises, when she keeps staring at the body on the ground. "Or imagine it blue, or with scales or tusks, if its humanity is the problem. I sincerely doubt that that is his true form."

"That just means I've killed a Zam Wesell. I _liked_ Zam Wesell."

The logical action is to point out that he doubts she liked this one. But she is in shock, so:

"... At least you didn't chop his arm off first," Loki says instead.

Jane blinks at him.

 _"You've_ seen Star Wars?" she says, momentarily distracted.

And then the video jerks up and down and Jane stumbles, steadying herself against a desk. Thor? It could be. It should be.

Sure enough, moments later there is the sound of a door being ripped off its hinges, and Jane's face is changing to a mixture of relief, disbelief, anger and something softer and Thor's voice is saying _Jane_ , unsteady with... something. And then Thor is in the screen, eyes resting on her, and the look in them, on his face _—_

Loki turns away, fingers clenching.

"You may take over here," he mutters to Bruce, slipping past him.

He cares nothing for Thor, of course. He merely wishes to tell Steve that Jane is safe now and nothing is stopping them from ending the video call and selecting a straight flight path to somewhere safe, that is all.

He presses the button on the wall that switches on the lights.

"Anyone ever tell you you're scary when you negotiate?" Bruce asks quizzically.

Loki summons a haughty look, and lifts his chin.

"Frequently."

"Well, add me to the list."

Loki snorts, and keeps walking.

Steve only nods when Loki seats himself and tells him Thor has found Jane. Possibly because he has deduced it already, or possibly because he is busy piloting. Loki isn't sure. He picks at the edge of the seat. There's a hole there, and he's probably making it bigger. He doesn't stop. Doesn't leave, once he's spoken.

"Is something wrong?" Steve asks, glancing at him.

Loki hesitates.

"No," he says at last.

He meets Steve's eyes as he says it; a _mistake_ because they are too warm and they see _too much_ , and a strangled sound escapes him that might be laughter.

"Well, _me,_ perhaps. Tell me, have you ever _hated_ someone for what you thought they had done, even when you _knew_ you had earned nothing else, only to find out that they had done _none_ of what you blamed them for? Hated them for— so much, when they never meant it, when they _always cared,_ and they would have done everything to help you if they'd only _known_ you needed it, and it was never their fault they did not?"

"Not really," Steve admits, and then, "... Thor?"

"Thor," Loki agrees.

They are silent, for a while.

"Foster suits him," Loki says at last.

"Oh?" Steve says curiously.

"I was not good for Thor, I think. When we were young I led us both into one mess after the next, and when we were older I was never very good at stopping Thor from returning the favour. Sometimes I did not even try. And I lied to him, whenever it suited me more than the truth. She is honest. Honest and clever, for a mortal, and she has courage, of a sort. And she cares for him. He knows what to do with those. I am not sure that he ever knew quite what to do with me."

Steve does something to the controls, and then reaches out and rests his hand on Loki's shoulder.

If he speaks now, Loki will hit him.

He doesn't. This is a gesture of comfort then, or perhaps of pity.

Well, Loki needs neither. He brushes off the hand, the warmth, and forces his lips to smile.

In truth, he does not know now why he spoke at all.

"Where are we going?" he asks lightly.

"Tony's mansion," Steve says. "Malibu, California. Tony says he'll be meeting us there, with Pepper."

"Good," Loki says, flopping his head back on the headrest.

He wonders if Steve would teach him to fly a Quinjet, if he asked.

"Thor's coming too, with Jane," Steve adds.

Of course he is. Loki's luck simply isn't _good_ enough for anything else.

"Just until Polt's been dealt with," Steve clarifies, "Then... I guess we all go home."

"I am looking forward to that part," Loki admits, "And the waffle iron."

"And the movies?"

"And the movies. But mostly the waffle iron."

Steve's lips tug upwards.

"You're starting to sound like me now."

"I am not," Loki says firmly.

"You are."

Loki rouses himself enough to send Steve a half-hearted glare.

A light is flashing somewhere, and he leans forwards, peering at the controls.

He hesitates, then glances back up at Steve.

"... How does one fly this thing?"

There is a moment of silence, where Steve looks at him like he's grown two heads and Loki tries to work out if he's said something wrong. Then Steve grins and beckons him forward. He's still teaching him an hour later, when a sprawling mansion of concrete and glass emerges beneath them, overlooking high cliffs and a dark blue bay.

They have arrived.


	43. Any Port in a Storm

The first thing Bruce does, once they have landed, is make for the aspirin. A wise choice. His hand does not look well. There is a slight delay, where they must pause in the huge entrance room of the mansion and ask for directions— the medicine is stored inside the kitchen, Jarvis says, in a cupboard near the wall— and another while Bruce waits for Steve to extract the bottle of pills for him and open the child-proof lid, but at last it is done, and Bruce has swallowed two.

He looks no better for it, Loki thinks, watching him critically.

He is pale with exhaustion and there are dark shadows beneath his eyes. The tension in him is like a spring too tightly coiled.

Loki likes none of it. Had his last attempt at using his magic not ended so miserably, he might have tried healing the bruised and battered _mess_ that is the mortal's hand. He owes it to him, he knows. It was he who caused that wound. But it did, and so he does not. It is not _worth_ hurting so, for failure. Bruce will just have to wait for however long his pills need to start working. Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? He can't remember.

Oh well. If he cannot last, Tony can always fly him to Fury's island and allow him to Hulk there. The beast will probably fix him swiftly enough.

"Where is Tony?" he asks, idly.

"At present, he is passing over Springfield, Missouri, Mr Silvertongue."

The name means nothing to him. Steve, however, is frowning.

"Not further? I thought he said he was already in Ohio just over forty-five minutes ago."

"Mr Stark has declared his intention of synchronising his flight path with Ms Potts, Captain Rogers, and has been somewhat delayed. However, I anticipate that, if they continue to travel at their current speed, they will arrive in approximately two hours and sixteen minutes."

Steve says something to that. Some meaningless pleasantry.

Loki ignores them.

If Tony cannot fly Bruce to safety, then they will in the Quinjet, that is all. It still has some fuel left. There is always the sea to fall into if Bruce does decide to smash them, or if they are ambushed. He is a good swimmer. He has been for a long time now. They will have time. Even if they are ambushed, even if Jarvis is compromised once more, they _will_ have time. The stolen gun lies inside his pocket, cold and reassuringly heavy, reminding him that he is not helpless here. That he is not trapped. If he cannot relax yet, he can at least _try._ He wants to. He also, he decides, wants a drink. Water, not scotch. He is thirsty.

He makes his way to the cupboards, to the one with cups in it, and takes one; a large mug, white, with blue stripes. An ugly thing. He wonders who bought it. The tap water smells of metal and of chlorine, but it does not matter. It could be brown and smell of mud and he would drink it. He fills his cup and drains it in one long gulp. It's not enough to quench his thirst, quite, but at least it washes down the acrid taint that lingers in his mouth. He wants _more._

He pours himself a second, a third.

He wishes Bruce or Steve would ask of Thor. He should _be_ here. If Thor can get from New York, or near it, to wherever Jane was being held in barely thirty minutes, surely he should be able to get from there to here when he has had an _hour_ to do it in. Unless they are not coming here after all? But no, Steve had said they would be. Thor must have _some_ form of contact with Tony. With Jarvis.

What has gone wrong?

"You're going to give yourself a stomach ache drinking that fast," Bruce says.

Bruce is probably right.

Loki pours his fourth anyway, and drains it too.

Bruce mutters something that sounds like 'masochist' which Loki chooses to ignore.

A few more minutes pass. Steve opens the fridge. Extracts a small tub that says 'Chobani Strawberry Greek Yoghurt' on the side and finds a spoon with which to eat it. Asks if Jarvis is monitoring them, and if they are safe. Jarvis is, and they are. SHIELD is monitoring the airways leading to them, apparently. Charming. Loki does not trust them.

Stopping Polt as he should be stopped is a task that, this far, they have performed extremely poorly.

Bruce fidgets for a little while, with the fruit, the bench-top, a pen, still too wary, still twitching every time the fridge rattles or birds call too-loudly from the sea. Tells Steve, when he asks, that, yes, he's fine, and how's Steve? And then, abruptly, opens the pantry door, and extracts the Nutella. Well, why not? There are worse things to crave. Steve opens it for him when the lid sticks, and Bruce sets it on the bench, takes a spoon, and eats it straight from the jar.

Loki simply... drinks. Watches. Waits. He waits in vain.

"... Where is Thor?" he forces out at last, through gritted teeth.

"Mr Stark says that Mr Odinson is at present in the process of recrossing the North Atlantic Ocean."

So far away?

"He is slow," Loki notes, not quite questioning.

"Dr Foster proved unable to tolerate unprotected travel at speeds considerably greater than her terminal velocity," Jarvis answers anyway, "She complained of discomfort before Mr Odinson passed Mach 1. He adjusted his speed accordingly. Based on their estimated position and velocity, I anticipate that they will arrive here in approximately twenty four hours."

Oh. Not Polt. Not any problem or accident just— Jane.

Frail, mortal Jane. Loki feels a brief spike of vindictive satisfaction. _This_ is what Thor gets for falling in love with someone as ill-trained for war as she is. It passes. In truth, he is mostly relieved. If Thor will not be arriving for a whole day— more, possibly, if Jane wants to eat, to stretch her legs, to visit the bathroom— then he will be able to… Sit. Sit, and talk about nothing and maybe wash before he must rouse his mind to alertness once more to plan with Tony what, if anything, they need to do _next._

Wandering over to the sink, he begins cleaning his hands. They're brown with mud and sap and blood. The muck clings to him.

"So can I ask," Bruce says, from behind him, "About Thor..."

About Thor indeed.

He scrubs his hands harder.

"What of him?" he says, reluctantly.

"Do you reckon he'd know what was wrong with your magic at all?"

It is— not what he expected.

Bruce knows little of Asgard indeed, to think that Thor would stoop to learn a craft so far beneath him.

"How _could_ he?" Loki sneers at him, lip curling, "He never made any study of the subject. He enjoyed my tricks, made use of them, sometimes, but he never _understood_ them."

And anyway, even if Thor could help, Loki would not go crawling to him like a beaten dog, whining for aid. He has _some_ pride left.

He is not so pitiable, so _pathetic_ , that he—

No, this is _not_ what he wants. He needs to master himself.

His temper is never good when he is exhausted, true, but even so, Bruce is no fair target for it.

The question was a fair one, asked only because the mortal worries for him.

It is his own fault that he cannot control himself.

"I apologise," he says stiffly, "I am— tired, that is all, and sore. My temper is somewhat frayed. I did not— it was not fair, to be angry with you. But truly, I need no help with the task. There are spells that will give me insight into where the problem lies. When I am sure that it is safe to squander what is left of my strength, when I have rested, I will try them. I will be fine."

"It's fine," Bruce says easily, eyes clouded, "I'm just worried you're going to hurt yourself trying. You said casting spells hurt you."

"I also said that it was like gently stretching a wasted muscle," Loki says frostily.

"That was before you broke it."

"I didn't _break_ it, I just— short-circuited. It still _moved_. I still _felt_ it move."

"Yes, I kind of worked out you were feeling something when you were pulling a Luke versus Palpatine, minus the 'father please' on the ground."

" _I was fine_ ," Loki snarls, whirling away from the sink to face him.

The water keeps running behind him.

Is he wasting it?

Does he care?

"You were about as fine as—,"

"Bruce," Steve says.

Bruce's jaw tightens.

Then he makes a frustrated noise, and takes another spoonful of Nutella.

Loki turns away. Turns off the water. Tries to control himself once more. His hands are shaking.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, a moment or two later. "I didn't mean to— It's just that you look so _young._ I keep forgetting you're in your thousands."

Loki blinks. Frowns.

Young?

He does not look _that_ young, does he?

"You do," Steve says, answering his unspoken question.

Loki lifts his chin haughtily.

"I would have you know that I am _older_ than you. Allowing for the standards of our races, I am perhaps _thirty_ of your mortal years."

"True," Steve agrees, "But you don't really _look_ it. Especially not when you're sleeping."

"When I am sleeping."

Steve reddens slightly.

"Yes. Not that I made a habit of watching you sleep or anything. I just couldn't help noticing it the times I _have_ wat— been present, that is, when you were out of it."

Loki raises one eyebrow, lips twitching.

"Stop it," Steve says, a bit ruefully, "You're making me feel like Coulson now. It wasn't meant to be disturbing."

"Was it not?" Loki grins, and then, when Steve opens his mouth to speak, "I know, of course. You are entirely too much fun to tease. But if it soothes you, consider the matter forgotten. Though it is not so very bad. At least you do not take pictures of me in that state. _That_ would be slightly disturbing."

If Steve was pink before, his face is blazing now.

"Lord, you do?" Bruce murmurs.

Loki feels his grin widening.

"It was just the one sketch," Steve says weakly, "You and Tony looked so— cute."

"Cute," Loki echoes.

Him _and_ Tony?

"Like little kids, at a sleepover," Steve clarifies, and Loki might, just might, warm a little more inside when the mortal's eyes soften _just so_ , "He was hogging the couch and you were squashed in the corner and both of you were snoring."

"I wish to see it," Loki says.

"It's back at the Tower, with my sketchpad. And I'm not very good. You probably wouldn't—"

Can Steve's skin burn from mortification?

Loki eyes him, fascinated.

"I would like to see it," he says again, "But not if you do not wish me to. I would not force you to share it."

Steve mumbles something incoherent, and takes another mouthful of yoghurt.

"You have no idea how old both of you are making me feel right now," Bruce says, poking his spoon at them for emphasis.

Reluctantly, Loki turns from Steve to look at him.

"Oh? And just how old are you?"

"Old enough," Bruce says firmly, extracting another spoonful of Nutella. "Talking _effective_ ages, I'm almost old enough to be your dad. And Steve's."

His Nutella is painting the corners of his mouth brown now, and a small patch of chin, where he has missed.

Forty-four, Barton had said. He does not, Loki thinks, look five.

Loki snorts at him, wholly undignified, and hefts himself upwards so he is sitting on the bench-top, legs swinging.

"Would that you had been. I would have taken you ahead of mine."

_Both of them._

"Thanks," Bruce says drily, "Though from what you've told me, I think I'd be a bit hurt if I _wasn't_ coming first given my competition."

Loki grins, thin and sharp, acknowledging the hit.

There's a fruit bowl at the end of the bench. He reaches for an apple. Bites into it.

One day, perhaps, he will understand how they can _do_ this— can _see_ his spite and his temper, can have witnessed first-hand the full horror of what he is _capable_ of when he is angry enough not to care about the consequences— and still see something in him worth caring for. For now, the warmth, that sears him inside like dwarven brandy when they _see_ him, when they laugh with him instead of _at_ him, is enough.

Silence reigns. He breaks it.

"How is your hand?"

"Sore," Bruce says, bluntly.

"Ah."

He envies Bruce, just a little, the ability to own weakness so easily.

"It's getting better," the mortal adds, "The aspirin's kicking in, which is good."

Loki nods. Smiles. Finishes his apple.

Takes a second one, and wonders if his core is balanced enough so that he can toss it from here to the bin without missing.

He can.

"Loki?" Steve says, "I know I'm probably as useless as Thor is regarding your magic, but... I mean, if there is anything at all that I can _do_ that will help you, you'll tell me, won't you?"

Loki glances at him, half-amused, half-touched.

His lips move, tongue already shaping words of gentle refusal. What can the supersoldier do? What can any of them do, that he is incapable of doing himself?

Nothing. They know no magic. They understand nothing of its intricacies. He knows this.

Both of them know this.

And yet, even so, he hesitates.

Steve's eyes are so very earnest, now. So very _blue_.

If will make him happier to be of use, why not? Though Steve has implied it, he has not stated _specifically_ that his help is only for things that will help him fix his magic. He has plenty of tedious duties he is only too happy to delegate.

"There is... something."

"What is it?" Steve asks.

His eyes are eager, and entirely unsuspecting.

Loki's smile turns crooked.

"Since Jarvis still says that here is safe, you can run me a bath. One with plenty of hot water, and bubbles and the crystals of magnesium sulfate that Pepper likes and whose proper name I cannot remember just now. And find me a towel and some spare clothes that are not caked in dirt and blood, and do not leave an inch of my ankles exposed. Preferably _not_ ones with Thor," he adds, just in case Tony keeps such merchandise here.

For a moment, Steve just looks at him. Loki half expects him to refuse. This is pure laziness, after all. He's not incapable of performing the task himself, and he knows full well that this was not what Steve _meant_. But Steve is moving now, setting his yoghurt down on the bench beside him.

"Anything else with that?" he asks.

Loki hesitates. His smile twists a little more.

"Scotch. Tony's favourite sort, whatever that is, with ice." And then, because why not? "The whole decanter."

There's a delicate pause. Then:

"... I'll ask Jarvis," Steve says, "Though I'm not _sure_ he has any cups that big."

"You will find that I am remarkably flexible in these matters. Provide a table and a cup of ice, and the decanter. I will refill it."

"Are you sure that's wise? Drinking that much?" Bruce says.

"No," Loki says, glancing at him, "Why?"

Bruce just sighs and fortifies himself with more Nutella.

Loki refuses to care.

Wisdom is Odin's job, not his. He's never been very good at it in the past, and he sees no reason to start now.

Besides, one bottle of mortal alcohol will hardly render him drunk.

He takes another bite of his apple.

"Well, if that's it, I'll see what I can do," Steve says, after a moment or two.

A whisper nags at him. There is— something.

Steve begins moving for the stairs. Reaches them. Starts climbing.

"... Steve?" Loki calls.

"Yes?" Steve asks, pausing.

To speak or not to speak?

"If Tony has one..." he hesitates, "Would you... I would prefer a bathroom with no mirrors."

Steve's expression is too far away to read properly. But then, Loki does not try to do it very hard. He also avoids looking at Bruce.

His apple is a convenient distraction.

"If I truly look as bad as Barton claims, I would prefer _not_ to see myself," he adds, laughably late.

There's a slight pause. Then:

"I'll find one," Steve says, a touch too forcefully.

Then he is gone.

OoOoOoOoO

Steve does find one.

Loki memorises its location.

The bath is slightly short, and even when he bends his legs his head still hits the other end of the tub when he flops backwards, but the warmth of it soaks into each muscle and it smells like— something. Something nice. Later, perhaps, he'll try to place it. Later, too, he'll do something about the snarled mess that is his hair. For now though... For now, he flops his head back, half submerged, and allows his thoughts to go blissfully, mindlessly blank.

He'll have to find some way of bribing Steve to do all his baths. Steve runs good baths.

A full hour later, Loki curls beneath the covers of a bed in a guest room, clean and damp and sore.

The water has left him relaxed; the alcohol, pleasantly warm.

He's wearing Iron Man pyjamas. They are, so Steve claimed, all Tony has in his size.

Later, if he remembers, he will ask Tony who he buys them for.

He doesn't go back downstairs. There's no reason to.

He is tired of talking, and nothing has changed with SHIELD that affects them. No one is coming. Jarvis says so.

He steals a book from Tony's workshop to read. It smells like grease and metal and Tony and says 'Biochemical Engineering' on the spine. A promising title, he'd thought, when he'd picked it. He's not so sure now. He reads, perhaps, seventy pages, and understands less than fifty of them, before the tiny words in their double-columns begin to swim before his eyes and his eyelids begin to close against the gentle lamplight. He tries to keep them open because— Why? Does it really matter, now?

If they do come, he has his gun hidden beneath his bed.

Five minutes. Five minutes he will allow himself.

Then he will get up and wait for Tony.

Yes. Yes, that is a plan.

A good plan.

He allows his eyes to close. Buries his head beneath the pillow, and drags the covers up high enough to shield his neck from the cold.

His other hand clutches the book. He'll read more of it soon, or fetch another.

Five minutes. That is all.

Then he will rise.

OoOoOoOoO

Steve and Bruce are waiting for them in the loungeroom when Tony and Pepper arrive.

Both of them have washed.

Bruce is looking tired, mainly, and kind of sling-y, and his hand looks like hell, but otherwise he's okay. Helps that he's Tony's size, so normal clothes actually fit him. Not like Steve, who's stuck wearing the XL Iron Man PJs Tony ordered drunk once for no reason at all, and managing to look weirdly cute in them. Not that he'll ever admit that. It's the mussed up hair, Tony decides, and the bare feet, and the fact that Steve's _moving_ and not lying comatose on a bed. And maybe a tiny bit, just a tiny bit, the fact that Captain America's wearing _him._

Textbook narcissist, Tasha had said. She's not wrong.

He's taking screenshots of this footage.

"Where's Loki?" Pepper says.

Tony doesn't panic. If Loki wasn't fine, Jarvis would have told him. Sure enough, Jarvis tells them the demigod's just sleeping. It's good. Ideal, in fact. If he's tired enough to sleep through a half-assed attempt to wake him— his words, not Jarvis', whose explanation seems to involve the subtle distinction between Loki wanting to be _told_ Tony's here and wanting to be _woken—_ he's tired enough to need it. At least the guy _can_ rest.

Tony's dead on his feet and he still feels like all he'd do if he tried lying down is stare at the ceiling. It's probably the coffee.

He needs more of that. He wonders if Pepper'll make another one for him if he asks.

She's in the kitchen now, making herself something.

"Do you know what SHIELD is planning next?" Steve says.

Tony drags his gaze from the kitchen to look at him.

"Nope. Spy-games, probably. Clint says they've shot down three unauthorised Quinjets so far, and that Fury's sent a team out to New Mexico to mop up the minions you left in the forest. There's the fact that Fury wants the serum, I guess. And that they're starting work on something to potentially ID shapeshifted whatever-they-are's."

"Does Fury want it back or destroyed?" Steve frowns.

Tony shrugs.

"Either. I told him he wasn't getting a sniff at it with the way he lost it last time."

Is it just his imagination, or does Bruce relax a bit at that?

"Loki _has_ still got it, hasn't he?" he asks idly.

"Kind of," Steve says, at the same time as Bruce says, "Technically."

"What?" Tony says.

"Well, he sort of... broke his magic, a bit, teleporting us," Bruce says, "Cross wired it, anyway. He hid the serum _with_ magic first. I'm not sure he can retrieve it until he's fixed it."

Tony remembers Loki talking about binding magic. Not well, admittedly, but he remembers something about two ways of doing it, binding and runes, and someone either going insane or losing their liver, and Loki telling them anything permanent was bad with a capital B. Has Loki broken it for good? He just got it back. How the hell did he _break_ it?

Suddenly, he has to squash the urge to wake Loki just to check that he is sane.

"Is he okay?" he demands.

"I don't know. He says he is, but he's the sort who'd say that stuck in a desert dying of cholera," Bruce says, waving his good hand for emphasis, "Still. He says the damage isn't permanent, and that he's got spells he can cast, if he _can_ cast them once he's rested up a bit, to work out how to fix it."

"If he can cast spells to ID things, why can't he to retrieve the serum?" Tony frowns.

"Because," Bruce says tightly, "At the moment, using magic hurts him. Badly. I'm hoping he'll fix that _before_ he does too much more with it."

Tony feels a twinge of something, remembering Loki's phone call.

He wonders how badly he needs to hide his Roadster.

"Well, here's to hoping he can and luck doesn't decide to screw all of us sideways," he says at last, aloud, before remembering that, nope, he never did get that coffee. Or a scotch. He wanders over to the bar to rectify that mistake. "At least he's sane. It could be worse."

"Probably," Bruce agrees.

No one says anything for a while. Then:

"And SHIELD doesn't want us in for backup?" Steve asks.

"No," Tony says, "Have a little self-respect. We're the A-team, not the expendables."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm serious, Tony."

"In _that_ outfit?"

"SHIELD is doing okay, or so Natasha told me," Pepper interposes, re-joining them, coffee in hand, "She thinks they've managed to stop the security leaks now, and they've got ways of stopping shapeshifters. Their problem is working out where Polt's men are and which side they're on, and she didn't think any of you were subtle enough for that. Your job is still guarding Bruce and the serum. Though..." she hesitates, "Natasha also said they're worried Polt _might_ tell Genosha about the research."

"I can see why they don't want anyone honest within a ten-mile radius of that situation," Tony says, digesting that.

"Yes," Pepper agrees.

"It's their own fault," Bruce says, plonking himself down on a chair frowning, "Maybe not Fury's, but the Council's for ordering it."

"It might be their fault, but they won't be the only ones caught in the crossfire if Magneto does decide to start another war over it," Steve frowns.

Steve has a point. Tony's starting to see just why Fury might, _might_ , have been desperate enough to let Polt operate as long as he has without actively stopping him if this is the sort of thing he's willing to try when thwarted. Now, all there is is Polt's word against Fury's, and Fury's practically got a PhD in professional bullshitting. Polt, by contrast, is just the guy with sour grapes who blew up an apartment and is trying to steal Fury's job. Tony's willing to bet every scientist on the project is buried, metaphorically or literally, and all data from the SHIELD servers on the serum is probably long gone now. But before... if Polt had decided his little takeover was going to fail, if he had gone to Magneto with the _real_ serum...

Well. It's a good thing none of them deal in what-ifs.

"So. Protect Loki, protect you," Tony jabs a thumb at Bruce, "And hope no one blows us up again. Seems like a plan to me."

"And sleep," Bruce puts in, with feeling.

"Yes, and sleep," Pepper says.

Tony's not so sure. It's the workshop for him. He feels too keyed up for rest.

"Half an hour, Tony," Pepper says, correctly reading his face, "If you're awake then, I won't stop you getting up again."

"... Deal," Tony caves, at last.

Half an hour of roof-staring. _Then_ the workshop.

Steve's still frowning, he notices, blue eyes clouded with thought.

"C'mon, Cap, it could be worse," he says bracingly, "They could be leaking it to Xavier's mob. Then they'd both be screwed."

"I'm not sure they'll be leaking anything," Pepper says, "In all fairness, Tony. Natasha said it was a concern, but even if he wasn't very anti-mutant, I'm not sure he'd like the loss of control or another war. My apartment aside, he seems to have been avoiding civilian casualties this far."

"Well, anyway," Tony says, "That's SHIELD's problem, not ours. At least, unless Fury screws it up."

Or until.

"I know," Steve says, "It's just... I'm thinking, Tony. What stops SHIELD starting that research again if it looks like war? That was why they started last time, wasn't it? Even if Fury won't, what stops the Council doing it anyway, with someone else? What stops this mess from repeating itself exactly the same way? It's not just the civilians I'm worried about, it's mutants too, and mutates. All of them are going to get hurt if this gets out. If SHIELD does complete it... I'm not saying SHIELD would use it on all of them, not at the start, but on threats they can't stop without it? I _can_ see them doing that."

"It's not that different to killing them by any other method," Tony points out, objectively. "Nuclear deterrent, and all that."

He's frowning though. So are Bruce and Pepper.

Chemical warfare was shut down for a reason, and at least in America, there are signed treaties saying it's illegal for it not to stay that way. Chemicals aren't as bad as pathogens, maybe, but they're still not _good_ for the simple reason that they usually last longer in an area than the threat they're dealing with and they don't differentiate between sides. All that most of them are capable of differentiating between is 'alive' and 'not', and accidents happen that have side effects no one wants to deal with.

But a form of it that can differentiate between someone with an X-gene and someone without one? With the level of anti-mutant sentiment that exists already?

It's going to be used.

If it exists, if SHIELD can't win without it, it'll be used. He's seen the Council in action. Still remembers catching the missile they sent out and taking it through the portal in what should have been a one-way road-trip to hell. They care about control, authority and _winning_ , not about innocent people, and none of those do much to cool tension. And when they use it? Well. It's not a question of _if_ it'll slip into the hands of another other Arnold Polt out there, another Thaddeus Ross, it's _when_.

Steve looks like he's thinking the same thing. Sure enough, when he speaks, his voice is firm with conviction.

"It is different. This isn't like building a missile or firing a gun. This is _genocide._ If it's not at the start, it has the potential to be and it always will. Kids, adults; innocent or guilty; if it gets out, it'll target them all. If—when—that becomes known, it's going to create sides and the people on both of them are going to feel threatened. They're going to be afraid. How many mutants are going to want out, to go whatever side won't, or _can't,_ kill them for being different? How big is the step between using a weapon like that against active threats and using it preemptively against _potential_ threats?"

Not big, Tony allows. It never is.

"Cheer up," he says at last, "If worst comes to worst, we can always _invent_ a cure for the serum instead of destroying it. Hand it out, hope they're grateful enough for it not to take the fact that they need it at all too personally. Send out a message of peace and tolerance and endless goodwill. I'd say we charge Magneto for his, except that I'm kind of worried about what the potential consequences might be of him not liking me to the shrapnel in my chest."

Pepper sends him a _look_.

"You think a cure's possible?" Steve asks, too hopefully.

 _'I don't know, because I'm trying to cheer you up and drug creation isn't a thing that I studied_ ,' is clearly not the right answer.

"Of course," Tony bullshits instead, "Every poison, disease and condition has a cure. It's just a matter of finding it."

It's just a pity for them that Polt isn't conveniently carrying it in his back pocket.

"How long would it take to make it?"

"That depends on a variety of factors," Tony says, dredging up memories of every Stark Industries R&D project he's ever handled in fields vaguely like this one, "For a start I'd have to have a better grasp of the marshmallow sciences than I do right now. Which should take, what? A day or so? And I'd need facilities. SHIELD's research, or at least some idea of what the thing looked like—"

"—Its target site, its mode of action," Bruce nods, "Whether covalently binding something else to that site would be enough of a preventative, or if it'd have side effects."

"How fast it kills you, to know if we're looking for a cure or a preventative—"

"—if there's anything that _would_ bind in preference, and stay in the system long enough to keep binding to newly formed DNA—"

"That. And even if I got the thing working, testing for side-effects can take months. Years, even, for the clinical trials."

Steve's staring to look lost. Pepper isn't, but then she's always paid more attention to Stark Industries projects that weren't his than him, so she's probably not.

Tony decides to have mercy.

"Best estimate? Months. But I don't know if it's even possible to find things that aren't people to try it on, and I'm also counting on Robbie having some sort of magical molecular structure ID spell, because if not, we could be talking _years_ just trying to work out where on the X-gene the stuff is bonding and how it's fitting it at all. I mean, people only marginally less brilliant than me are _still_ trying to sequence human DNA and cure all mutations of the 'flu."

Which is actually kind of sad, when he thinks about it.

He wonders if Fury'd let them see his private data on it. Probably not. Fury might _like_ them, but he trusts people about as far as Pepper can throw them.

Still, it's something to check. He _might_ do it.

He knows Fury doesn't want the stuff to get out.

"Well, if you can, if Loki can," Steve says, "In the interests of making sure _no one_ can ever try doing this again, I say do it."

Says the guy who won't be doing any of it.

Still... There's Pepper, looking supportive and probably thinking of both the kids this will save and the good PR for Stark Industries if it goes public, and there's Bruce, looking hopeful and trying not to, and there's the fact that Steve really _does_ look adorably weird right now. Besides, if he can rope the demigod into helping him, it'll give Loki something to do that isn't knifing his Roadster or brooding over the Problem that will be arriving soon called Thor.

Win-win, no matter what happens, really.

"Alright. If—when— Loki gets his magic back and gets it working painlessly again, I'll try _._ We'll try, that is. Assuming he says yes. Neither of you are allowed inside the labs though when we start working though, okay? In fact, make that no one. No one except Loki and me go in there, for any reason at all."

"Okay," Bruce says.

"Okay," Steve says too. And then, "Tony? Thanks. I owe you one."

"You and all of mutant-slash-mutate existence are going to owe me one."

"If you pull it off," Bruce reminds him.

" _If_. Buddy, I created a new element with a home-made cyclotron I built here in one day, drunk, while I was dying. And Loki's Loki. We'll do it."

Probably. Eventually.

And in the meantime, until the SHIELD mess is sorted out, it'll be them, Thor, Jane and Loki inside his mansion, at relatively close quarters, playing happy families.

The perfect recipe, really, for relaxation, happiness and stress-free enjoyment.

At least he's insured.

"To success," Tony says, raising his glass, and drinks.


	44. A Study in Waiting

Tony's right, as it happens. He doesn't sleep.

Pepper doesn't either, but she's closer to it than him. Or at least, Tony assumes she is, because she groans and buries her head a bit further beneath her pillow instead of telling him to give it a bit longer when he rises and makes a stealthy escape downstairs after his thirty minutes are done. Steve's reading in the loungeroom, when he passes it. There's a handset on the table next to him, and the seat he's got overlooks the bay.

He glances up when Tony's half-way down the stairs, eyes questioning.

"Workshop," Tony offers.

"Right. Good luck."

"Thanks."

An underwhelming exchange, all things considered.

He's not sorry to abandon it.

The workbench is exactly how he'd left it last time when he gets there. Advantages of having You and Dummy relocated to the Tower, probably. That, and not yet being found by Polt. Though even if they are: Houseparty Protocol. He's got this. He pours himself a coffee, settles himself in front of a laptop, cranks the music up, and sets Jarvis to trawling SHIELD's servers for relevant info.

Then he settles down to apply himself to the noble art of cramming.

OoOoOoOoO

It's early afternoon when Loki trots downstairs to Tony's workshop looking scruffy, tired and slightly peeved.

He's slept a solid six hours, which is actually impressive, given the strange house and the recent stress. He blames knocking a book off the edge of the bed for the fact that he woke up at all, and looks, frankly, like it wouldn't hurt him to crawl back into bed for another ten or so hours. Tony says so.

"You are hardly in a position to lecture me," Loki tells him, _"You_ have not slept at all."

"My house, my rules, buddy. I'm allowed to be hypocritical when I want to."

Loki rolls his eyes, and slumps inelegantly into a chair beside him.

"That is hardly fair."

"That's life for you. Tell you what, get a job— preferably with Stark Industries, R&D— get an apartment, and when I visit you, you get to tell me the ground rules."

"Tempting. But the satisfaction I would gain from that would not be worth the effort spent to achieve it."

The words are light, but there's something in Loki's eyes that doesn't match his voice. Not uncertainty, quite, but something close. If he were Pepper, he'd probably be able to read it. As it is, Tony's got nothing. It's more than a flicker, though, because it's still there when the demigod adds:

"Why _work_ for what you give me now for nothing?"

"I admire your dedication to maximising the cost-gain benefit to our relationship."

"Thank you," Loki says, smile sharp. "It is one of the many skills I have honed during the long centuries of my existence."

A blatant lie. Loki wouldn't be the mess that he is if he'd done that. Still, Tony's not going to call him on it.

Is Loki worried he's going to mind if he sticks around mooching? Maybe. He's proud enough for it to be possible. Tony considers telling him that before he made her CEO Pepper bought his birthday presents for her with his money, and that even with a salary in the six-figure bracket, she still does. That most of his friends, pre-the-SHIELD-mess, were people he paid to stick around. He also considers telling the demigod that what he's done for them this far is a lot more than nothing, and probably even a lot more than Clint, who he's pretty sure he did actually hire to do this.

He doesn't though, in the end. He could be wrong, and besides, he's not had enough sleep for anything that's this likely to lead to a D&M.

He grins instead, and jabs a finger at Loki.

"Well then it looks like you're going to be stuck with my ground rules forever."

"I am, am I?" Loki says drily, "I would mind that more, I think, if you had any likely to constrain me."

"Believe me, I have them. Rule number one: No stabbing my cars on the premises."

Loki's smile turns more genuine. Whatever the look was, it's gone now.

"Oh? And when we are _not_ on the premises?"

"... No stabbing them anywhere at all."

"Indeed?" Loki says.

His tone is deceptively mild. Tony frowns suspiciously.

"And no scratching them either. Or killing th— Let's go with damaging them. No damaging my cars voluntarily in any way at all."

"Very well," Loki says placidly.

Tony eyes him a moment.

Loki holds his gaze, eyes bright; innocent.

"You've got about ten different ways to wreck those cars without breaking your word, haven't you?"

Loki grins, but doesn't reply.

Tony groans.

"Console yourself, Tony, with the reflection that you are insured."

"I've been doing _that_ for the last nine hours."

"Oh? Is the thought of all of us here together truly that daunting for you?"

"Frankly? Yes."

Loki makes an abortive movement with one hand. If it were anyone else, Tony'd have said he was going for a friendly punch on the shoulder. It's not, though, and he's yet to see the demigod voluntarily going for physical contact with anyone, unless he's sparring with Steve. Probably just making himself more comfortable, then. It's not long before the careless laughter in Loki's eyes begins fade.

"Problem?" Tony asks.

"No. Well, perhaps. It is... strange. It is over, and yet I still feel..." Loki trails off, shrugging.

"Like a seagull's suddenly going to turn into a Jericho and blow this place right out from beneath us?" Tony offers flippantly. "Makes two of us, Robbie. Disadvantage of having a good imagination. Speaking of which, how possible do you think it is to get your magic well instantly and create a cure for the Elixir of Death?"

Loki squints at him, a bit doubtfully.

"What does that have to do with having a good imagination?"

"... Steve," Tony admits, glumly, "I kinda told him I could do it."

"Ah," Loki says.

Ah about sums it up.

"Was that during the period that neither you nor Jarvis bothered _waking_ me, when you arrived home?"

Tony decides to tackle this situation like the mature adult he is.

"Maybe. But if you're blaming people, bear in mind that Steve, Bruce and Pepper didn't wake you either. I mean, at most, that leaves me with twenty percent of the blame."

Loki raises an eyebrow at him, looking like he's trying for unimpressed and mostly hitting 'amused'.

"You think so, do you? I disagree. The fact that you wrote Jarvis leaves you with forty percent of the blame, not twenty. You are leading the field."

"We're ordering you new clothes? Overnight delivery? That actually fit, and don't have me on them?"

"You, or Pepper?"

"... Well, Pepper. Obviously. But it's _my_ money she's using."

"Because the CEO of Stark Industries is, naturally, short of funds."

Tony's pretty sure that doesn't have anything to do with Pepper using his money. Still. Moot point. The credit for that one's clearly not going to him.

He changes tactics.

"I can teach you how to drive a manual?"

The response is instant. The amused-slash-your-cars-will-suffer look on the demigod's face cracks into instant greed and something that's almost like _longing_. It's disturbing, in a way, how predictable that change is. Makes him wonder inconvenient, messy little things like what sort of response Loki's had in the past to asking questions, that's left him so unable to ask for the things he so clearly wants. He dismisses it. Thoughts like that tend to lead to pity, and that's the last thing Loki wants or needs right now.

"The Roadster?" Loki asks.

"Nnnye— Maybe," Tony hedges, "Eventually. She's not something you just start on. She's something that has to be _earned_."

Loki frowns sceptically.

"What must I do to earn her? Drive well?"

"... Essentially."

Loki eyes Tony thoughtfully. Then he nods.

"Very well. I will learn, and I _will_ earn her. When it is safe to do so."

"Deal," Tony says, "Though for the record, that much intensity over driving? Mildly disturbing. Oh, and maybe wait until after I forge you a license too, or rope Pepper into doing it for me, because if you're going to be playing on the roads, you might as well have one. And a credit card."

Loki grins, and reaches for a pen. Starts fiddling.

"You realise that I will abuse your funds endlessly, if you give them to me."

"Billionaire, buddy. Besides, it'll have a cap on it. Maybe. If I remember."

Loki looks sort of touched, exasperated, and weirdly fond.

Tony decides not to think about the why of it too hard. He goes back to typing instead. Researching. Thinking.

He needs more coffee. His heart might be objecting, just a little, to the eight cups he's had so far, but it'll cope. He's had worse.

"What are you doing?" Loki asks, after a moment or two.

"Cramming."

Silence.

"Developmental sciences," Tony clarifies, "Intelligent drug design. Molecular engineering."

"I thought you said that you were hoping I would have some way to cure the serum with magic."

"Kind of. I mean, it'd be awesome if you _did_ , but I'm not that optimistic. Even if you can work out what the cure is, we've got to replicate it for a whole planet. Ideally, indefinitely. Does your magic operate on that large a scale? Like, on a curing entire planets of people forever sort of scale?"

"No," Loki admits, "Not really."

Tony hmms his agreement.

"Have you a strategy, for this research?"

"Homework first, strategy later. If Steve asks though, I'm going brilliantly and I've already started working on a solution."

"Of course you have. The first step to finding any solution is research."

"Exactly," Tony agrees.

"And if Bruce asks?"

"If Bruce asks, tell him to trot down here. I'm planning to rope him into helping me, at least until we get up to the practical part of the exercise. He's going to be my tutor slash sounding board slash science buddy while I play around with virtual simulators and chemical databases and whatever research SHIELD left on their servers on the stuff that I can still access, because he's the one who actually has a clue about what I'm going to be doing with the serum."

"Why exclude him from the practical part?" Loki asks.

Tony swivels his chair a bit to look at the demigod.

"Serum. Breathable. Lethal. Any of this sounding even _vaguely_ problematic, if we're doing it in the same room as Bruce? I mean, PPE _exists,_ but still."

"You intend to experiment on the serum, rather than the pre-serum, first?" Loki frowns.

Tony stares at Loki.

Loki stares back.

"... I've been up for thirty-three hours," Tony defends himself.

Loki's gaze flicks pointedly down to the coffee mug, then back up to his face.

"That means that you should have tried harder to sleep _before_ now instead of drinking coffee, not that that is not an abysmal idea."

"It's not that bad," Tony defends himself, more for pride than because he actually thinks the words leaving his mouth are actually true, "I mean, we don't know what the pre-serum even _does_ when it hits the human bloodstream. We don't know what it looks like, what happens to it, what—"

"Do we need to?" Loki cuts him off, coolly.

"Um, yes? I mean, I'm not an expert, but I don't need to be to know that we're kind of stuffed if we don't know what the thing we're targeting even _looks_ like. It's not like I've got the setup here to play around with X-ray crystallography. I'm an inventor and a mechanic, not a biochemist _._ The tools for that are all at the Tower. We can't invent something to chop off the active site on a molecule when we have absolutely no clue what the thing even _looks_ like."

"And your chances of analysing the true serum here are better, are they?"

"... Maybe?"

Loki snorts.

"Concede defeat, Tony. You are beaten."

"I'm not beaten until I know whether SHIELD has any info for me on either serum," Tony counters firmly.

Loki rolls his eyes.

"Well, assuming that I am right and you can determine where on mutated genes the pre-serum binds, would it not be easier to simply... occupy it with something else instead? Something that fits _better_ , that would prevent a reaction from taking place at all?"

"That depends. If it's adding itself to the same spot every time, maybe, or if the pre-serum is a catalyst. But if something _being_ in that spot is what the serum needs to do whatever it does to kill people? If even tiny doses are lethal? Not so much. We won't know until we try to track what the serum actually _does_ when it's added to mutated DNA. Even then, the fact that the DNA's going to _lose_ whatever we add to it after it self-replicates is also going to cause problems. It's a chemical weapon we're talking about, not a disease. I don't think it's going to be possible to invent a vaccine."

Loki's frown deepens.

"For someone who claims to know little about the subject, you seem to know rather a lot."

"Cramming," Tony reminds him, "It's a thing humans do. Well, college graduates, anyway. Though in fairness, I'm pretty sure everyone above the age of ten has mastered it. This just has ten times the pressure of your average exam and a bigger penalty for failing."

Loki makes a dismissive noise.

It's kind of weird, how clear-cut everything is, and how bright, when he's like this.

He's staring at his pen. When did he start?

So maybe he's slightly drunk, as well as overtired. Ah well. He's been worse.

"Tony?" Loki says.

"Yeah?" Tony asks.

"Are you—"

"I'm fine."

Loki doesn't look like he's buying it. He doesn't challenge it though, at least, not out loud.

Just _looks_ at Tony a moment longer, before shrugging.

There's a moment or two more of silence. Then:

"If we cannot invent a vaccine, we cannot permanently occupy every site to which the serum can bind, we cannot find out what the pre-serum looks like before it reacts with mutated DNA, and we cannot examine the serum because you lack the facilities here to do so... How do you intend to invent a cure?"

Tony massages his forehead, fighting a budding headache.

"I'm a genius. I invented the suit in a cave. I'll think of something. The serum emits radiation. So does the pre-serum—and we _need_ to think of a better name to call that, by the way. Or at least a nickname. But whatever it does, it should be traceable. If Bruce is happy donating me blood to test, I can add some of the serum to that and see what I can work out. It'll have something."

They will have something. Right? Right, Tony tells himself firmly.

Still. First step's first. Homework. Then he'll see what he can find out from SHIELD's database.

"My magic..." Loki starts, then shrugs, forcing a smile, "I will see what I can do."

"How much does it hurt?" Tony asks, idly.

Loki stiffens slightly.

"C'mon, this isn't a pity-party I'm throwing you," Tony needles. "Tell you what, you answer me honestly, and I'll tell you honestly how I'm feeling."

"How you are feeling is obvious enough," Loki counters coolly, "You are overtired, overstressed and overcaffeinated and would do well to sleep now while it is moderately _safe_ in case we are attacked here later and do not get the chance. But you will not. You are like Bruce was, before we arrived; a spring, too tightly coiled. You will wait until you are drunk on weariness or you collapse before you try."

"... I was going to go with 'sleepy', but okay. And for the record, Bruce left to sleep twenty-odd minutes after I got here."

Loki sends him a sharp smile.

"Yes. So Steve told me."

Tony rolls his eyes and goes back to typing. Resists— barely— the temptation to push.

He's rewarded for it, after a full two minutes of silence.

"My magic, Tony," Loki sighs, "Was like turning on a badly-wired switch. The power is there, surging within me, but it merely... It burns, that is all. It is not pleasant, but it is not the worst thing I have felt. I had intended to rest it, for a day or so, in case the fault was merely over-straining it. To see if it would obey me _then_ , or if I must seek out some other solution to the problem."

"Not a bad plan," Tony says.

"No, I did not think so," Loki agrees. He hesitates, then adds: "If Bruce asks, my efforts to heal myself go painlessly well."

"Fussing, is he?" Tony says sympathetically.

"Yes. I do not know _why._ He did not when I had a dagger wound in my side, or in front of Thor."

"He's a tactful guy," Tony says, "You kind of go all squishy and small whenever Thor's name comes up, and when you're in the same room as him it's like, I don't know—"

"Nor do I," Loki says sweetly, "I would not tax myself, if I were you, thinking up a suitable metaphor."

"... Fair enough. Whatever you do then. He's not going to embarrass you in front of your big brother. He'll save it for the after-battle private time. Like I say. Tact."

"A quality _you_ seem to lack."

"Yep. Pepper's been failing to instil it in me for years."

"She has my condolences."

"... I can still revoke the credit card, Robbie."

"You promised a phone that you have yet to give me," Loki says carelessly, "I will believe in the possibility of your credit card when I see it."

"... Jarvis," Tony says, "Tell Pepper to add a StarkPhone to the list of things to order."

"Yes, sir."

Tony turns back to Loki, triumphantly.

"Ha."

Loki's lips are tugging upwards now, into a reluctant smile.

"I stand corrected. You do not make your own?"

"From scratch?" Tony says, sceptically, "I mean, I _could,_ but why bother? My designs are perfect already. I wouldn't mass produce 'em if they weren't."

"Such modesty," Loki says, splaying a hand across his heart.

Tony grins. He'd reply, but his brain picks that moment to go perfectly blank. Disadvantages of over-tiredness.

He goes back to staring at his laptop screen. Developmental sciences. Research. That's it.

That, protein databases, and reliable reaction simulators.

"Thor will be coming, soon," Loki says.

"Believe me, I'm aware of that."

And then, because there'd been a note of _something_ , there, in that:

"See, this is why Bruce gets all overprotective of you. And Pepper. You sound like _that_ and then when you say you're fine all it does is make us want to give you a hug or something. I mean, come on. No one's going to think any less of you if you admit that he makes you feel kinda like clocking him on the jaw or hiding in a corner somewhere because he combines Tarzan's respect for personal boundaries with Kronk's level of perceptive. Kronk's everything, maybe. Except his cooking skills."

"Thor can cook," Loki says, mildly, "On campaigns, on quests, most of us learned. And Foster taught him how to cook your meals, during his exile."

"Which you know because...?"

Loki flushes, and won't meet his eyes.

"I used to watch him. Sometimes. When I wasn't busy ruling," he admits, sounding sullen.

"That's weirdly cute, as well as creepy. You worried about him?"

Loki sends him a dirty look.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"I was _watching_ him to see if he was close to proving himself worthy, or if I had time to prove that I was _better_ , not because I cared. If I had _cared_ , I would not have sent the destroyer to Midgard to kill him when his friends tried to visit him. If I had cared, I would not have told him that Odin had _died_ from the grief Thor's actions had induced, and that Frigga would not allow me to bring him home. I would not have told him that he could never go home and let him think that he would be stuck in his mortal shell until he'd lived out his meagre lifetime and died unworthy, sickly, frail and alone."

Tony clicks his pen in and out a few times, digesting that.

"That was mean," he says at last.

"It was intended to be."

"Why?"

Loki makes an impatient gesture.

"Why not? I felt like hurting him, at the time. He had everything— not then, perhaps, but Frigga had made it clear enough that he _would_. And I... It matters not."

It does, Tony suspects. He's just not sure how.

"I'm starting to feel insecure here. Speaking, you know. As a billionaire and a superhero."

Loki eyes him blankly a moment, before understanding flickers in his eyes.

"I would not hurt _you_. You are my friend. And even if you were not, you did not gain what you have by taking it from me, or begrudge me what little I have left. _You_ do not tell me to know my place and be _silent_ when I speak out of turn, and nor do you say things like 'I will teach the Jotnar to fear us, so that they never cross our borders again' or 'father, let us slaughter this race of monsters together'."

"... Thor _said_ that?"

Loki shrugs.

"In his defence, they had broken the truce between our realms, and killed two of the Vault guards."

"Thor mentioned that, actually. The dead guards, I mean, as opposed to the blatant racism. In the context of your shoddy Asgardian security."

"It is not 'shoddy.'"

"Your entire security network revolves around _one guy_ who isn't protected by anyone and has to run and deliver reports manually."

"It is not quite _that_ bad," Loki says, rolling his eyes. "There are wards on most restricted areas that alert the King when people perform actions there that are illegal. Defence mechanisms, like the shield that protects the main Palace, and the Destroyer, that are activated remotely."

Tony eyes him sceptically.

"Tell me, Tony, how long has your electricity been used? Two hundred years? Three?"

"I'm going to assume that's rhetorical?"

"Two hundred," Loki says, ignoring him, "And how long are your fossil fuels supposed to last?"

Tony can sense, vaguely, where he's going with this.

"Arc reactor technology will have kicked off long before they run out."

"Because it is so readily accessible. So simple, for the world's population to use."

"Once I've perfected it, yes."

Loki raises an eyebrow. Tony meets his gaze stubbornly.

After a moment or so the demigod laughs, shrugs and looks away.

"Perhaps. Asgard may even buy that technology from you, if you do manage to make it work. That or simply steal it. A renewable source of energy, that will not leave their atmosphere festering and dead in a few thousand years' time would be popular, I think. More practical on a large scale than magic, and Asgard needs its defences upgraded anyway. I do not think we have done that for nearly nine centuries, now."

"I need another scotch, I think," Tony says, trying to comprehend the enormity of going _nine-hundred years_ without improving military defences.

He rises. Walks over to the bar. Pours himself one.

It doesn't help.

"Nine hundred years."

"Comfort yourself with the reflection that if Asgard had met any threat in that time it could not easily defeat, we would have done so."

"They don't find the idea of a nuke going off even _vaguely_ disturbing?"

"Tony," Loki says, sounding amused, "Are you jealous? Do you want Odin to see you as a threat?"

"... No," Tony says, reluctantly.

Loki grins.

"You do. You should not. Knowledge is what concerns him, not power. He is like Heimdall, Tony. If he can see what you are doing, when you are doing it, he does not fear you. Why should he? You cannot strike him without him knowing what you intend, and none in the Nine Realms can match him in power. Not in Asgard, with the Odinforce at his command. It is subtlety and stealth, not raw power, that he fears."

Tony grimaces, and downs another mouthful of scotch.

"So they feared you, then?"

"I doubt it," Loki says shortly, lip curling, "I was loyal enough to him, back then. Pathetically so, even."

"When you weren't signing away provinces or killing Baldur."

He's not sure the last one's right, until Loki sucks in a sharp breath, frowning.

"Myths," Tony offers, by way of explanation.

He pours a second scotch, and wanders back over to the demigod. Plonks it down next to him, and reseats himself.

Absently, Loki takes it.

"I need to read them, I think."

"Yeah."

They're silent for a while. Not comfortable, quite, but something close.

"I was still loyal to _him_ ," Loki says, eventually, a bit sullenly. "To Asgard, and Odin. I did not mean for Baldur to actually _die_. I just wanted him to _hurt_."

Tony eyes him.

"I'm kind of glad I'm not your sibling. No offense. Just saying."

Loki glares at him.

"Did you ever consider, I don't know. Talking? As opposed to starting off with potentially fatal assault?"

"Sometimes."

"... And?"

Loki shrugs.

"I asked Baldur, once, to stop flinching at the sight of my children, and to treat them like his nephews instead of beasts. He told me that he was not a good enough liar to pretend my children were not monsters. I confess that I stopped 'talking' with him about how I felt about him after that. I was jealous, I think. He had so much— was Frigga's favourite, the fairest son of Odin, loved by all, and he gave his own love back so freely— and yet he would not give me that. But then, I was not very fair. I hated him, but he was still young then, and he was not the only one who made it clear that he could not bear the sight of my family."

"He sounds like a jerk," Tony says.

"He was not. He was... imagine a cross between Giselle, from Enchanted, and— and Thor."

"You might have to help me out here, because I'm guessing I'm not supposed to be picturing a bearded lady."

Loki snorts, eyes distant.

"You are not. He was handsome, strong, and painfully naive. The sort of person who would dive into floodwater to rescue a drowning kitten and tell a wrinkled crone she was beautiful and _mean_ it. If the serving maids found any spiders, he was the one they went to to remove them. He never laughed at them. He also tended to tell the tutors whenever Thor and I slipped out when we should have been in bed, to raid the kitchens or visit the tavern or simply to stir up trouble. He was... _annoyingly_ virtuous."

"One of _those_ kids," Tony says, with sympathy.

Loki sends him a lopsided grin.

"You are supposed to be reproving me, Tony. You have just found out that I _murdered_ my bro— my adopted brother. You are a hero, not a villain. You should not approve."

There are a thousand ways to deflect that one.

Tony opts for looking Loki straight in the eyes, and saying:

"No, I've just found out you _accidentally_ killed a guy. Compare that to the myths, where it was your evil plan from the get-go, and New York? I'm not saying it's not bad that you meant to injure him, but I watched you deliberately, intentionally roasting people alive on the streets of New York. I was out there, clearing up the wreckage and lifting cars off people's legs and dragging rubble off half-crushed kids. I'm hardly going to be more disapproving of one count of manslaughter however many centuries ago than I am for that. I mean, which of us— Avengers, I mean— _haven't_ killed people, directly or indirectly, who we didn't mean to? Well, besides Steve," Tony amends, because he's pretty sure Steve's past is as spotless as a set of white teeth on an Aquafresh commercial.

Loki's brows twitch into a frown, half unsure.

D&M alert be damned.

"Do you know why they used to call me the 'Merchant of Death'?"

"Because you earned your fortune by facilitating slaughter. Most of this country's military operations, at least until around nineteen months ago, were conducted using your weapons, and in selling them you profited from the deaths of your enemies. Those projects Stark Industries worked on that were not warlike in nature were funded either by your weapon sales or by your army directly."

Tony frowns.

"Clint?" he says accusingly.

Loki inclines his head.

"You know, this was going to be the bonding moment where we suddenly realised that we had a shared history of killing people we wish we hadn't that we're trying to move away from, and you realised that actually most of us had histories just as dirty as yours," Tony tells him, peeved.

It earns him one raised eyebrow, and a sceptical look.

"Because, of course, creating weapons and selling them for the sole purpose of protecting and strengthening your part of this realm is _exactly_ the same as destroying blindly, without remorse and without care as to your target, and not realising a man who was supposed to be your friend was illegally selling your inventions to both sides with neither your knowledge nor your consent is not different _at all_ from deliberately trying to slaughter an entire city because you lost your temper and wanted to _hurt_ your not-brother for no reason that makes sense now at all. Yes. I see _precisely_ why we would have bonded over that."

There have been people who haven't cared that he used to design weapons for the military— that thanks to him being busy throwing parties and getting drunk and not _seeing_ what was happening in his own company, those weapons killed who knows how many US soldiers and probably ten times that number of civilians. There are people, because there's Pepper, for one. Rhodey, for another. All of SHIELD, for that matter.

It's still strange to have it dismissed so easily.

To have someone not just try to console him for it, but genuinely not care.

He's been silent a fraction too long, he thinks, going by the way Loki's watching him.

"Yes. Well," he says, forcing his thoughts to move, "That's not... Different intentions, same end result."

"Intentions matter though, do they not? At least to some extent. If a doctor in this realm attempts surgery and the patient dies, is that not better than the same doctor deliberately cutting _wrongly_ and purposefully ending them?"

Easier to say than _feel_ , but he can't argue the logic there.

"... Fair enough. So bonding's out."

"I would not say that. Your intent was clear enough. And touching."

"Touching," Tony echoes.

Just how tired is he?

"Yes. I do not have many friends, who try to console me for the fact that I have killed and do not regret it."

"... You're making me feel mildly like a sociopath now."

Loki snorts again, and downs the rest of his scotch.

"That was not my intention. I simply... As I said, it is rare. Most of my old friends would have been shouting at me by now, or hitting me, reciting a litany of the full horror of my deeds at me, and telling me all the ways that I am a monster for not feeling the sort of guilt _you_ do for your past. I used to pretend I did feel something, sometimes. Especially for Mo—for Frigga. She used to cry, sometimes, especially when she was alone."

"Mothers tend to do that, when their kids die."

"I know."

He probably does.

They're silent for a while.

"Your friends hit you?" Tony says, eventually.

"Your friends do not?"

Tony remembers Rhodey, this mansion, and a very unfortunate party.

"Point."

They're silent for a while more.

"You should Google PTSD at some point," Tony says.

Loki glances up at him, startled.

"PTSD?"

"Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder."

"I do not suffer from any _disorder,_ " Loki huffs.

Tony hesitates.

Honesty wars with pride.

Honesty wins.

"You're lucky then. I do."

"... You do?" Loki frowns doubtfully.

Tony shrugs. Smiles. Downs another mouthful of scotch. Loki knows, he reminds himself. Not the details, but that it happened. And he's survived worse.

It doesn't make it easy, but it makes it _easier._

"Yep. Bathwater. They dunked me, in Afghanistan. It was—" he breaks off, which is strange because he'd kind of meant to spit more _out_ , "Cold, I guess. I remember, when I have baths. So I don't. That's PTSD. Symptoms of it. Avoidance and the flashbacks."

Loki drums his fingers idly on the bench.

"I do not like mirrors," he admits at last, sounding cautious. "Or falling."

Tony nods. Wanders over to the bar, and refills their glasses.

"Google it," he says, again.

Loki hesitates, then glances at him.

"I will Google it if you will sleep."

Tony raises his eyebrows.

"I'm not tired, Robbie."

Loki's mouth twists into a lopsided smirk.

"And I am not suffering from any disorder. Shall we research this cure together, then?"

Tony frowns at him severely.

"That's blackmail."

Loki's smirk widens.

Still, in the game of who's manipulating who, Tony's not sure he's losing. Is it sad that he and Loki are both substituting manipulation for open conversation, and not choosing to look after themselves without that? Probably. He's sure it's a symptom of something else that's wrong with them.

"Well, Tony?"

Tony sighs.

"Deal."

OoOoOoOoO

Loki reads, dutifully, the multiple entries on 'PTSD' for Tony once the mortal has left.

The symptoms of it are disturbingly accurate. It irritates him. He does not want his mind to be sick. Bad enough to be afflicted with an ailment he _can_ mend, without one that seems to persist indefinitely and for which quaint solutions like _talking_ are required to fix. _Talking._ Loki sneers at the slew of words, eyes dark. So. They would have him share his secrets, these nameless _professionals_ , and relive everything, would they? And for _what_? 'Wikipedia', at least, suggests that this does not always work. And even if it might, if he has not spoken of Fenris, of Svadilfari, in centuries, what then?

If speaking quickly is necessary to prevent long term effects, he has missed his chance to be free of it centuries ago.

He wonders if Steve has read this too.

Probably. Steve had been far too happy when he had told him the little he had of his past.

Loki glares at the screen, and wonders if he should feel resentful or touched.

He gives up, after an hour or so.

Googles cures instead, and mutants, before getting sidetracked onto Tony.

There are videos of him, on YouTube. Loki decides, eying their titles doubtfully, not to click on them.

He will ask later why so many of them seem to feature Tony without clothes.

He switches to Thor next.

To Steve.

The Battle of Manhattan is the top result for both of them.

Both of them look tired, in the footage of them watching New York burn. Odd. He does not remember that.

But then, perhaps that is because Steve had not _mattered_ then, and he is too used to thinking of Thor as he does of Odin; radiant, confident and invincibly strong. He does not look so here. In these photos, Thor looks... weary, Loki decides. Tired, resigned, and perhaps unhappy as he shades his eyes and stares upwards at the sky. Loki watches the image for a short while, feeling a curious stab of... something. There are more photos of Thor, and video clips. Thor blasting the Chitauri from the sky, and kicking cars. Stupid of those filming, to waste time on that instead of flight. Stupid, but convenient. He wonders why he is wasting time with this at all.

His lips twist, brittle and sour.

Abruptly, impatiently, he clicks the 'Thor' search result tab closed. Moves the cursor; makes to close the 'Captain America' one too.

This distraction gains him _nothing._

And then he stiffens, suddenly cold, eyes snagging on a string of words a few results down from the top of the page.

_Betrayed: Superheroes Harbor New York Killer. (Posted 43 minutes ago.)_

It can't be. Can't—

He clicks the link. A news website, of some sort. Sees the headline, larger now and bolded. Beneath it, two photos run together, side by side. The first, a screenshot from New York, is of him flying, shooting at a group of mortals cowering beneath him, too stupid or too frightened to run. The second is of himself once more, but blurred this time, and grainy, and seated beside Steve drinking coffee.

"Jarvis?" Loki says, rising abruptly, "Put me onto Romanoff. _Now."_


	45. A Golden Web

On Asgard, those responsible for such slander as this would have been whipped.

Whipped, or challenged to the _holmgang_.

This is not Asgard, Loki is aware, and nor is this slander, but knowing it does not alter the fact that he _wishes_ he could pursue such a course of action now. Those who wrote those words—those who published them—deserve to _suffer_. He has read the article, of course. Has read it twice over now, waiting for Romanoff. Has read the comments attached to it. It is spreading. Has been spreading, and he does not know how to fix it.

Why had he slept? Why had he not stayed awake and _stopped_ this?

"We've seen it. Stark's PR office isn't on it yet?" is all Romanoff has to offer him, irritatingly calm, when she answers.

Loki glares at nothing.

"I do not know. He is asleep and so is Pepper. I was under the impression that SHIELD would be dealing with situations like these before they _became_ situations."

Silence. No good excuse, then, for this. It should not surprise him. When have they ever had a good excuse for any of this mess?

"Who wrote it?" Loki bites out, when the silence lengthens. "I assume that SHIELD has _some_ idea?"

"Polt's leading the field, but we're a little lacking in the proof department. The IP address was inside a public library. We can't rule out the possibility of it being a random hack who got hold of the CCTV footage."

Loki considers the idea, and discards it.

"I think we can. The article suggested that I am a public menace and that the Avengers-,"

"I've read it," Romanoff cuts him off.

"Then you should agree with me that a random hack would not have known I had led the invasion, if it truly was so little-known a fact as Steve claimed. A random _hack_ might also have called Pepper first for a comment in order to clarify the situation and avoid a potential libel suit."

"So wake Pepper and get a libel suit on it," Romanoff says, as though this is obvious.

"How will that work when it is _true?"_

"That isn't what matters. The question is whether or not they can _prove_ it's true."

"To prove that I am living with the Avengers now is not difficult. To infer that I was rescued by them is not unreasonable, I think," Loki says coldly.

Who _else_ would do it?

"Maybe," Romanoff allows, apparently unaffected. "If you were imprisoned."

"If?" A slight pause. Then: "...You intend to lie about that?"

"Yes," Romanoff says simply.

The idea is laughable. Loki does laugh; a derisive bark, with no amusement.

"How, Romanoff? Even assuming that Thor and Steve were _capable_ of deceiving anyone about that when questioned- and they _will_ be questioned, we can be sure of that- what went on in-" a moment, where he must pause, must gather himself, before he can force out: "those cells. Was it not recorded? If I am right and those behind this are Polt's agents, they can bring it forth if they need evidence, and if they do it will, unmistakably, be _me._ What then?"

"It's unlikely that will come out. Prisoner abuse tends to lead to public sympathy for the victim, and I don't think that's what they're going for in this case."

He wants to strangle her, for being capable of speaking those words so lightly.

Would she stop, if he wrapped his fingers about her throat and squeezed?

"Just how much are you thinking of denying?" he asks, eventually.

"At the moment? Everything."

"Everything," Loki echoes flatly.

"Yes. Not that you're here now, obviously, but your imprisonment and your role in the Germany and New York attacks."

She says it so easily, too. No doubt colours those words. No hesitation.

"Are you entirely sane?" he asks, pleasantly.

"I am. You're objecting a lot to a plan that will potentially mean you can live at the Tower or anywhere else in America freely, Loki. Anything I should be aware off?"

"The fact that your populace may not be _entirely_ constituted by mindless fools who will swallow the lie that none of this was me, when several hundred of them must have seen me blowing up your city or stabbing out eyeballs in Germany in person?" Loki suggests.

"I'm not forgetting it."

"Then how-"

"Because we've also got several hours' worth of footage of Polt's shapeshifters conveniently shape-shifting."

"That is..." Reckless. Opportunistic. Clever.

"The public might be doubtful if they see footage of you blowing up cars in New York," Romanoff continues, "but legally they can't touch you until you're proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. In this instance, SHIELD will be providing a lot of doubt."

Oh yes, it is very clever. Clever, and convenient.

He could not have charted a more pleasing course for them to have followed if he had tried. After all, he does not care much why he does not have the loathing of the millions of mortals that call this part of Midgard home, if he can remain at the Tower. If he can live with Steve and with Tony without his very presence tainting them.

Convenient indeed.

He has grown wary of sudden good-fortune.

"There are a thousand alternatives to allowing me to wander this realm freely," he says, at last. "Why this?"

Romanoff is silent.

"Why?" Loki presses.

"Because SHIELD doesn't need an inquiry into why the Avengers are running around with a known supervillain," Romanoff says, eventually. "The easiest ways to avoid that are to remove you, or to remove your super-villain status. Under the circumstances, Fury decided the former might not be feasible. That left giving you a plausible cover identity, or this. We'd have gone with the former, if the story hadn't broken. As it stands..."

"As it stands, they will swap that for mass panic over the possibility that anyone might be a shapeshifter in disguise?" Loki says, unconvinced.

"We've got ways of testing for them. They're good enough at mimicking what they can see, but tests are suggesting their sub-surface DNA tends to register as non-human. And the mass panic won't be worse than it is already over mutants like Mystique anyway."

So assured, she sounds.

So convinced.

"Don't stress too much about motives," she adds drily, almost amused, as if he is some child, fractious and petty, that she must humour. "SHIELD is pragmatic, that's all. You've made it clear you're staying, and that you're not a threat right now. There's no reason to treat you as an enemy. If it makes you feel better, you'll probably still be being monitored as a potential threat. If anyone in SHIELD can get past the upgrades Tony will probably put in after this."

Her logic makes sense. Irritating as her tone is, it does make him feel better that SHIELD has not dismissed the threat he poses so easily. Pathetic, really. He should not care what any of them think of him.

He gives up.

"If that is truly how you intend to deal with this, then, is there anything I should be doing to help?"

"Get Pepper on a libel suit. Work on shutting down the serum. Aside from that, not really. Not unless you need to do much to prepare for Thor and Foster coming?"

His fingers clench.

He straightens them.

"Not personally, I should think. It will be half a day before he arrives, and I imagine Tony will handle that when he wakes."

That is tomorrow's problem.

By tomorrow, he will feel more up to dealing with his not-brother. If not, with Jarvis' help, he can probably avoid them if he tries hard enough. Thor cares more about Foster than him, after all. Given the choice, his not-brother will surely choose her company ahead of seeking out his own.

"Mm. About that. Apparently Sitwell sent a Quinjet out to pick him up with Foster, so he'll be arriving a bit sooner than expected."

Loki's stomach lurches.

"Oh?" he says, "When?"

"About an hour. Clint's flying him."

One hour. One pathetic, inadequate, inconsequential- It should have been _ten_.

"You should tell him, by the way," Romanoff says, apropos of nothing.

Barton, or Thor?

"Tell him what?" Loki says idly.

"About your sentence. You should tell Thor."

Loki stiffens. She should not be saying this. They are not good enough friends for this. They are not friends at all.

"Consider your advice noted."

His mouth feels numb; his words, stiff.

"Give me an honest answer, Loki," she persists, "What would you do for someone who knew what had happened to you, to stop them telling your brother?"

It isn't a threat. He reminds himself of this, must, because Romanoff would not. Not after offering to lie about the invasion.

She is simply trying to work out whether or not this will make him a liability to her team. No... No. She _knows_ that he is one. She is simply forcing him to confront it. He does not want to. He does not, and yet he is. He wonders, again, how his fingers would feel locked about her throat.

Wonders how her blood would look, dripping on the carpets.

"Loki."

"Nothing," he forces out. "I would do nothing for them. I am not so weak that I would bow to the demands of a handful of powerless minions."

He wants to mean it. Honestly, he suspects, the answer is, 'A great deal'.

Thor is not supposed to know. If he knows, Thor will...

Thor must _never_ know.

"Consider it, Loki. Psychologically speaking you're a mess, no offense, and from what I've seen of him, Thor's not blind enough to miss it. Soon he's going to have access to Heimdall to ask why. Even now, with the amount of footage we can't account for, the shapeshifters we're finding... the chance that he'll meet one talking about what happened to you or somehow see it isn't low. I don't want to deal with the fallout if Thor goes after SHIELD or if you go to pieces because neither of you were mentally prepared for dealing with the truth."

Each word is salt, and he is an open wound.

"Thor is not so perceptive as you believe. You overestimate his intellect. Even now, he believes the lies I tell him."

"Believes, or doesn't challenge?" Romanoff asks.

Loki doesn't know. How much has Thor changed? How much have they both changed, in the long months it has been since they were friends?

"Consider it," Romanoff says again.

"... Very well. I will do so," Loki concedes, at last.

He won't. He suspects Romanoff knows this as well.

There is nothing much else to say, after that. They terminate the call.

She is right, he knows. He is a liability like this. If Polt's agents discover this weakness... But no.

No, he will simply kill them, if they try to tell Thor. Romanoff is _wrong_ about the solution. The solution to all of this is not his utter and complete humiliation in front of the not-brother who has never failed physically in any way at all. It is killing all who know the truth and are not on his side save Heimdall and Odin and possibly Frigga, and simply mastering himself. Controlling himself _better_ and reminding all of them just how he has earned the title of Liesmith.

He will not fail in this.

A few minutes later, he remembers he should be waking Pepper. He does so.

Pepper, weary but determined, takes an orange looking tablet she tells him is an Advil and begins dealing with the mess that is the press.

Loki leaves her to it. She has this in hand, and for now he will trust that SHIELD does too.

Thor is coming. What use is there in staying when he can contribute nothing? Instead, he retreats. Locks himself inside his bedroom. There are no suits here that fit him. There is nothing formal at all. Tomorrow such clothes will come, so Tony had claimed, but he cannot hide here until tomorrow. He could use his magic to summon up some proper garments, if he chose to risk it. He misses his armour. Near Thor, these pajamas he wears leave him feeling hopelessly vulnerable.

Silly, really. Thor is no enemy now.

_Was it ever his blows that you feared?_

Loki closes his eyes and opens them again, steeling himself.

What does it matter, if Thor thinks him ridiculous?

What does it matter if Thor laughs at him?

He cares nothing for Thor.

He steals some of Steve's hair-gel to slick back his hair anyway, and wonders what he looks like.

Ridiculous, probably.

A mirror would tell him.

He shivers, suddenly, and strides from the room.

Soon. Soon, the mask will stick, and he will fare better. Until then, he'll need to guard himself more fully, that is all.

He sits with Steve, until the cold sickness in his stomach leaves him. Tells Steve Thor is coming, when he asks, and pretends he does not see the quick look of concern those words earn him. Tells him, too, about the article, and Romanoff's plan to lie about everything. Steve does not look like someone who is convinced that lying about everything to the public is a good idea, but that is Romanoff's problem, not his. He takes a certain satisfaction in that. She deserves it, for bearing the news that Thor will be here so quickly.

Steve does not ask him if he is alright.

It is bearable, until it isn't.

He waits on the roof, then. Dangles his legs over the edge and stares out at the sea.

It is peaceful, the ocean. Its roar soothes him.

If he's lucky, Thor's Quinjet will land on the helipad where it _should_ land, and Thor will take Jane inside first and stay with her.

If he's lucky, no one will bother him here.

If he's lucky.

His lip curls.

It is too soon when the roaring black speck that is the Quinjet appears on the horizon.

By the time he realises that it is landing not on the helipad but on the same roof as him, it is too late to hide, and too undignified to try. Is it Thor or Barton he has to blame for this? Or himself, for coming out here to be found like this at all? It doesn't matter. The damage is done now. Steeling himself, he turns, and rises. Thor steps out first, his mortal, apparently sleeping, cradled protectively in his arms. Barton follows after, and it is Barton he focuses on.

"You realise, do you not, that Tony has a perfectly adequate helipad?" Loki says, accusingly.

"Thor asked me to land next to you. Besides, you lot already parked your- wait, what the _hell_ are you wearing?"

"Pajamas," Loki says, smiling sharply.

His own fault, then. Charming.

Barton is squinting at his clothes now, and pulling out what is, unmistakably, a phone. Tony's phone.

Loki grits his teeth, and does not hit him.

"Take that photo, and I will liquefy your tendons."

There is a distinctive click.

"Worth it," Barton says, irritatingly unaffected, "'sides, I'm pretty sure there was some update about your magic being shit right now."

Loki glares at him.

"I'm going to take that as a yes."

"It will not always be so."

"No, but by the time it's recovered enough to fry things you'll probably be too busy frying Polt's agent's to bother with me," Barton says, putting his phone away. "Speaking of which, no, you don't need to stress about us being followed because HQ says we weren't and yes, the perimeter is still up. Tony got food here?"

Loki gives up.

In this garb, intimidating anyone is impossible.

"He does. I will, generously, assume that you are telling the truth and that you have _some_ proof that you are you?"

Barton rolls his eyes.

"You pulled a Bloody Baron at HQ and told me you'd lost contact with Tony; I told you I needed bait and an eyeball before we pranced off to pilfer iridium in Germany; and you had a seriously melodramatic way of talking about being sick of scuttling in shadows in the sewers. Take your pick. How come _Thor's_ not getting the ID drilling?"

"Because he is carrying Mjolnir, and she is rather hard to mistake or to mimic."

Her magic nauseates him, in truth, not least because he cannot properly access his own.

Why is Thor not moving past? Why is he not _leaving?_

"And my bow is?" Barton says indignantly.

"Very. I do not envy you the task of explaining to Tony why his roof broke if it does so, by the way."

Barton mutters something too softly for him to catch. He wonders if it is swearing or an excuse. And then he is no longer wondering about Barton at all, because Thor isn't moving past them, isn't twirling Mjolnir in preparation for a swift flight down to the ground. No. He is stepping towards him, with an earnest:

"Loki."

Reluctantly, Loki glances to the side.

"Is there a reason you are failing to escort Foster to somewhere warmer than here? She looks less than well."

She does, actually. In fact, she almost looks as if she is unconscious, rather than sleeping. Did Polt's agents injure her then, in some way? She had seemed fine enough on the monitor when she'd stabbed the agent threatening her. Did they encounter some trouble mid-flight? Loki frowns, considering that. The wrong move, apparently, because Thor's face is slackening in— something, and his not-brother is taking another step towards him.

Loki scowls at him more.

"I will do so, brother. But will you not come with me, now you have finished baiting Barton?" Thor asks.

"What makes you think I have finished?"

"Loki, I fear that she is ill," Thor says. "I did not realise it. I merely thought she slept. I think perhaps the cold—"

"You gave her your cape, yes? That should have dealt with the worst of it."

"I did," Thor allows, "And so I thought too. But she complained of the cold shortly before she began to grow sleepy, and I do not think it enveloped all of her."

Frail, pitiful, mortals.

"I am neither doctor nor healer, Odinson. Not of mortals. Bruce is. Take her inside and wake him. Let _him_ treat her."

"Seconding," Barton puts in, "No offense or anything, but my advice? If it's hypothermia, don't rope Psycho into this, just get her warm."

_"Psycho?"_ Loki echoes.

"Hey, you called it, not me."

Thor is turning now though, and leaving, eyes shaded with... disappointment, Loki thinks. He grits his teeth, and reminds himself that he does not care. He does not, and so he merely watches, as Thor jumps, lands, and disappears somewhere beneath the white curve of the roof. Probably, he is lying Foster down carefully on one of the couches, now, hands lingering, cradling her, as if it is all he can do to let her go. As if she is his world. What would Thor do, if she died? What would he do, Loki wonders, if he wandered in there and tore out her heart?

"You might want to work on that," Barton tells him, sidling up alongside him, apparently unbothered by the drop barely a foot away, "Someone might think you care."

"They would be a fool, then," Loki says.

"Yeah? You even seen your eyes whenever you look at him? Don't give me that look. Get a mirror. Tony's got enough of 'em lying around."

"Did no one ever tell you that you are overfond of the sound of your own voice?"

"Not half as often as they do Tony," Barton retorts. "You want to watch it, by the way," the mortal adds, glancing at him, voice turning more serious. "Thor tried asking what your sentence was, in the Quinjet, and if you'd been honest with him."

Loki raises an eyebrow. Forces his smile to remain natural; his hands to remain carelessly open at his sides.

Thor has not allowed this matter to drop?

_Believes, or doesn't challenge?_

"... Oh? And you said?"

"That SHIELD's cells are a place of sunshine and roses, obviously. I like my skull bones the way they are, thanks."

Loki nods. Hesitates. Looks away.

He is... grateful, he suspects. Does he thank Barton, here?

Unlikely. He killed Coulson, and forced the mortal to murder his friends. Barton has not done this for him.

Without his permission, his thoughts stray once more to Thor. Has Steve found him yet? Has Jarvis woken Bruce? Has the look in Thor's eyes that says _I expected more from you_ gone? Loki sneers, and turns before Barton can see. Abruptly, he makes for the edge of the roof. Leaps, lightly, and lands on the ground below. There are stairs, of course, but they are slower. He doesn't care. Not really. Not about Thor.

It is just that Bruce is sleeping, and it is his fault Bruce's hand is broken.

Must he wake him too, merely to spite Thor?

No. He owes Bruce more than this.

Steve isn't there, it turns out. Thor says Steve is getting him blankets. Foster is on the couch.

Loki wonders why Thor does not take her to a bedroom.

It doesn't matter. She looks peaceful enough, when he reaches her. Thor's hand closes about his wrist when he reaches out to feel her forehead, and when Loki turns to demand that he _let go_ , his not-brother's eyes are clouded with concern. Concern, and beneath it soft with a trust that is as pathetic as it is misplaced.

"What...?"

"Do you wish for me to examine her, Odinson, or not?"

Thor lets go abruptly.

She's cold, when he touches her, but not icy. Nothing too severe then. She will be fine on her own. Probably, she has simply fainted; an irritating trait. Loki says so.

Thor looks like he would like to hit him.

"Can you help her wake more swiftly?" his not-brother says, with audible restraint.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps. Brother, I _know_ that you can fix her. I have seen you cure wounds tenfold worse than this."

Loki glares at Thor. Thor glares back.

Barton, who has apparently wandered inside after them, selects a banana from the fruit bowl and peels it, watching.

"Has your magic truly been damaged so completely?" Thor says at last, frowning.

"Of course not," Loki snaps. "I simply do not see the need to _waste_ what I have on _her."_

_"Loki-"_ Thor explodes, and then, with visible effort, reigns himself in.

There is a short silence. Then:

"You owe me for this," Loki says at last, still scowling.

"You would ask _payment_ for aiding her?"

"It is something of a custom in this realm, is it not? Is it not good form to respect the customs of the realms one intends to live in?"

Barton coughs something that sounds like 'bullshit'.

Thor ignores him.

"Loki, she may well be your sister, one day, if she will have me."

"That would be true only if I were your brother," Loki scoffs. "And even if she _did_ want you, do you truly think the Allfather would _let_ you marry her?"

"I would not allow him to stop me," Thor says unfilially, a martial light in his eyes.

Loki snorts.

"You will be disowned, and Tyr will inherit the throne."

"Father has not officially disowned _you,_ brother," Thor says, mildly. "I should think, given the choice, he would still leave it to you ahead of Tyr. At least with you Asgard would be unlikely to declare war on eight of the Nine Realms at the same time."

"Just on two of them," Loki sneers coldly. "If a civil war did not break out first to stop a _Frost Giant_ from becoming King."

Has Odin truly not disowned him? Does he still think his adopted _pet_ will one day crawl back to his feet, ready once more to serve? If he does, he is _wrong._

"They would not care!" Thor shouts, eyes flashing. "How could they, when father is himself half-Jotnar?"

_Do you forget the times you swore to slay them all?_

_Do you forget what they did to Angrboda's sons?_

_Do you truly think a Kingdom whose foundation is oath-keeping could kneel to one to whom by nature every oath is nothing?_

Thor does. His conviction is written plainly in his eyes.

It is... nauseating.

"I will treat her," Loki says abruptly.

Thor blinks. Frowns.

Loki does not grant him time to speak.

"I will wake her, since you are too impatient to wait. But in return, I ask for one room. One room inside this mansion for my own, that you cannot enter unless you have my spoken permission to do so. My bedroom. Well?"

Thor's frown deepens. His gaze falls once more to Foster.

"Loki..."

"Come now," Loki says, persuasively, "You would hesitate to sacrifice something so _little_ to ensure her speedy recovery? And it is little, Odinson. It is not so wrong of me to crave at least _one_ space I can be free of you. It could be _hours_ before she wakes without my help."

Thor sighs.

"Very well, brother. You have my word, save that you need my aid and are in no state to grant me leave to render it."

A weak oath— one that would not have bound him— but it will do.

"A deal then."

Reluctantly, he steps towards Jane again.

He wonders if perhaps he should have thought this through more completely.

Too late, though, for such thoughts now.

He places two fingers against the mortal's forehead and _wills_ the energy to flow from him into her; to drive back the darkness that has overcome her. If he knew more of Midgardian medicine, if he had the strength to waste to diagnose her sickness properly, he might be able to employ a more targeted approach. But he does not. He hopes he has not damaged his magic too completely. Hopes that it will be better, now he's rested it. Hopes—

It does not hurt.

_It does not hurt_.

It courses through him like a summer storm, heady as only the finest of Alfheim's wines have ever made him, and it _does not hurt_.

Why? _Why?_

Has he truly recovered so quickly? Was everything, all his theories, all his conjectures—

No, a cold voice whispers. A coincidence, that the first time it should work properly, it should do so in obedience to Thor?

Well. There is an easy enough method to test it.

Thor's mortal is stirring now. Abruptly, Loki ends the crude flow of energy between them, and directs it instead into a simple diagnostic spell to analyse himself—

And staggers, vision blacking, as his heart is pierced by a million needles. But not in time.

Not in time, that severed flow, to stop him catching a glimpse, just one, of the mesh of golden wires, twisted and splintered and broken, that writhe about his magic, strangling it. An evil thing, that mesh. Vile. He can taste it, and the taste is as familiar and bitter as vomit.

"What is wrong?" Thor asks sharply.

"Nothing," Loki snarls.

He'll kill him. Burn him. _Hurt_ him—

_Allfather. What have you done to me_?

_What have you done?_


	46. A Narrow Pathway

The question is a rhetorical one.

What the Allfather has done, Loki knows, has _seen_ , is bind him.

What the Allfather has _done_ is not made use of a pre-existing method to do this, but _created_ one. A curse that must once have connected each individual thread of magic in him to the collar he'd worn, and made of both a grounding system that, like the wires in Tony's lab which deal with unwanted electricity, removed the power of it from him the moment he attempted to gather it. No chance to build up inside, no chance to drive him mad for lack of a way to spend it. No brutal separation. No chance for anything at all.

Just a muted hunger; the memory of the freedom of _before._

Clever, really, that spell. Insidious. A soft trap that even now, _knowing_ the taint that infests his flesh like maggots, he cannot sense. Alfheim's roses are not so delicate, nor the masonry of Nidavellir more precise. The scholar in him even admires it.

What is there _not_ to admire?

He sees it clearly before him in his mind's eye, in detail as exquisite as it is horrific, the mutilation it is now beside the perfection that it must once have been.

He, Loki, has done this.

It is he who severed it.

Brilliantly, _cleverly_ , he severed that collar, as cleanly as a surgeon cleaving bone with a butter-knife, and he's left himself with _this_. Power, sluggish as water flowing over a narrow stream-bed that has been choked by weeds, and with that trickle, the agonising pressure of the rest of it that cannot follow or simply comes out _wrong_.

Unless commanded by Thor?

Unless— and he cannot discard this either— it is used for healing mortals?

A problem, those, with this theory.

If he's right, if those splintered bindings that mix haphazardly in his blood now are doing this, then nothing should work painlessly until he gets rid of them all.

Nothing, unless Odin has had the foresight to create clauses of exception that have somehow _survived_ his brutalisation, and that Odin would choose either clause seems impossible. Oh, Odin feels _something_ for the mortal race, Loki knows, but to allow him his power _only_ when he is healing them? When it had hurt to kill those who'd been _attacking_ mortals? The idea is absurd. It is far more useful to kill an enemy _first_ than to heal the damage they do _after_.

And as for Thor... Surely Odin would have worked _harder_ to make Thor hate him enough to abuse this, if it had been that.

He is missing something. None of his theories fit.

_What did you do to me, Allfather?_

_What spell did you use?_

There is a wing in the largest of Vanaheim's libraries that is devoted to the mishaps that happen when magic is misused. He's never read them all. Too lazy. Too sloppy. Too complacent. Too sure he'd never need them, because none of them would happen to him. Would the answer to this lie in there? Would the masters of that place allow him to project an illusion there to study this? He's not sure.

He is sick of guessing. Sick of being _wrong_.

"Loki," someone says, and then there is a hand on his shoulder.

He's not too far gone. He knows it isn't _them._ It's still too heavy. Too hot. It traps him, and he is _sick_ of Thor touching him.

"Release me."

"Tell me first if—"

Only the fact that he isn't holding one saves Thor's stomach from a second dagger being buried beneath the scar of the first. Nothing saves Thor's Median Nerve from the sharp pressure of his nails.

"What—?" Thor says, close to a yelp, and— ah.

 _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. _Breathe._

He isn't trapped. Not yet.

"One day," he says to his not-brother, who is now rubbing his retracted wrist and looking hurt, "You will learn better than to keep touching me."

"What is _wrong_ with my touching you? You never minded before."

Loki's lip curls.

"Did I not? Are you _sure?"_

"Yes," Thor says, simply. "You liked it."

He had, hadn't he? Sometimes.

_Never doubt that I love you._

Those days seem so long ago now.

"Are you sure?" he says again, and sees the doubt flicker in Thor's eyes.

"… You should have told me if you did not. I would have stopped."

Cold anger explodes inside.

"Oh? Am I imagining the hand on my shoulder, then, that happened after I told you bare _moments_ before it not to touch me? Did I _imagine_ you not letting go _two minutes ago_? What a poor memory I must have, to be so mistaken. But then, you should not be surprised. I have so _many_ imagined slights, do I not?"

"Seriously?" Barton says, from the kitchen, "You're picking _now_ to rip into him?"

A good point. One he should keep in mind, since he's not sure, cannot be, that no connection exists between Thor and his magic.

With effort, he checks himself. Swallows the rage back.

He should apologise for this, he knows, but the words stick in his throat.

Thor is looking at him strangely.

"Did you grow so unused to such things, then, in the Void? Is that what changed you?"

His first instinct is to blink, then to frown, because where in _Helheim_ did _that_ come from? He suppresses both. Forces his eyes to widen, just slightly, and looks away instead; a silent admission. He thinks he'd craved touch, craved any sensation, even pain, floating there, but as reasons go it will do. At least it spares him the effort of finding one himself.

"I am sorry, brother," Thor says, roughly. "I should have thought before I assumed your mind unshadowed from your time there."

"Yes, well," Loki says.

"Was that why—" Thor starts, and then breaks off.

Loki wonders if those words are supposed to mean something to him.

Barton is watching him now. He can feel the mortal's gaze on him. It could be worse, he knows— Barton will not pity him; this is curiosity at worst— but even so he has enough of this for now. He searches for a distraction, and finds it, moments later, in the form of a soft groan from behind Thor.

"Your mortal is waking."

Thor frowns slightly.

"My mortal, Loki, has a name. Jane."

Loki's smile tightens. Relaxes.

Ironic, and hypocritical, that he is prepared to pretend he does not hate Thor while he has a use for him, and discard him when he does not. Is that not one of the things about Thor's return when he had stolen the tesseract, about his leaving after he'd reclaimed it, that he had hated most? A moment, that thought turns, and then he thrusts it from him. Later, he will think on that. Not now.

"Jane is waking, then," he concedes.

He need not have bothered.

Already Thor has turned from him and is striding towards her to kneel at her side.

When, Loki wonders, is Steve coming? All he is _supposed_ to be fetching is one blanket.

Absently, he makes for the kitchen. Retrieves first water, then two of Bruce's aspirins. It's curiously tempting to linger here. If he stands just so, he cannot see Thor, and Thor cannot see him, and all he needs to do is find himself some food to ensure that Barton sees nothing strange in his staying. Tempting, but it will not serve. He has no firm plan for the future, but many nebulous formations. Until he has learned what he needs to, avoiding or alienating Thor feature in none of them.

Returning, he sets his offering down beside Jane.

She's sitting up now, aided by Thor, softly groaning.

"Medicine. For her head," he says, at Thor's frown. "Bruce likes them."

Thor's brow clears.

"How did you know I-?" Jane starts.

"Because I am not a good healer, and my spells have side-effects."

"You are a good healer," Thor counters, "You are just a touch _forceful_ , that is all."

The definition, in fact, of a poor healer, but he does not say so.

For Thor, who can endure pain when he needs to and for whom nothing is more galling than inactivity, the only thing that matters is the end result, and the swiftness of the road taken to attain it. He has never understood why Fandral, Volstagg and Loki prefer the slower, gentler efforts of Eir.

Jane is drinking now.

Loki frowns slightly.

He does not know if he would have drunk his own offering. Not if he'd been as fond of Selvig as she is.

She has a headache, true, but even so she is reacting curiously well to his presence. There's a pinched look in her face, and a haunted look that lingers about her eyes, but he does not think either are due to him. He is no expert on human sentiment, but he would have expected hatred by now, anger, or fear. In his stalling, he'd said only that she was worthless to him and did not matter to anyone save Thor; it cannot be that that softened her. His frown deepens.

What has Thor told her, in the gap between her rescue and her faint?

What has Selvig _not_ told her?

"Is something wrong?" Thor asks.

Loki's gaze snaps from her and back to him, frown fading.

"Several things are wrong. To which do you refer?"

Thor watches him, silent.

"To what is making you frown," he says at last.

"Oh. That. I was simply wondering how many of SHIELD's agents were shapeshifters, and when it was they began the infiltration. Idle concerns. SHIELD is rooting them out well enough, and there will be Heimdall to check with that we have not missed any if we still have concerns when the bifrost is mended."

"Heimdall," Barton grimaces, as though the name itself is enough to give him a headache. Loki sympathises. "Fury almost had an aneurism explaining that one to the Council, by the way. I think it'd be better if you didn't broadcast it when you're using him too openly."

"Why?" Thor frowns.

"Privacy laws. Confidentiality. Everyone up top's got a finger in someone else's pie they probably shouldn't have, and it'll be fuckall if it goes viral."

"I hope they don't— don't all make a habit of doing things like stealing the life's work of innocent scientists," Jane says, weakly.

" _All_ the levels do that, provided it gets somewhere. That's standard procedure. You should take it as a compliment that it happened to you; most scientist's don't."

Jane looks unimpressed. So does Thor.

A tendril of amusement creeps upwards inside.

He will be sorry, Loki realises suddenly, when Barton dies. Perhaps he will even be sorry for days. A problem, because in his line of work, the mortal will die sooner rather than later. Just when was it that he grew fond of the mortal?

Morbid thoughts, all of them.

He forces them aside.

"You may call them anonymous tip-offs, if you wish," he says dismissively. "Or decorate the reports you submit with convenient coffee stains over the name parts."

"Electronic submission sucks for a reason, Elsa, but thanks."

"Elsa?" Thor echoes, lost.

"Disney princess. Queen. Whatever. Ice Magic. 'Let it Go.' You should watch that, by the way. Assuming you end up staying long enough, that is. I mean, you should watch Game of Thrones first, but _after_."

"Not if you want to watch movies with me, you shouldn't," Jane says, massaging one temple absently. "I've just been kidnapped, threatened and— I'm not up for incest, rape and baby-stabbing yet. I want my movies to give me cavities, and I'd prefer it if they did it without daggers."

"It's not like that's _all_ that happens."

Loki's interest sparks, flickers, and dies.

The room is getting darker, he realises suddenly, and for a moment he thinks it merely a passing cloud covering the sun. Then:

"Did you just call my brother a 'princess', Barton?" Thor says slowly; softly.

Barton shrugs.

"You have to admit, he is a bit of a drama-queen."

Thor's reflexes have always been fast. Fortunately for Barton, sluggish though his mind is, Loki's tongue is faster.

"A jest," he says, even as Thor's hand rises, palm open, a silent summons, and thunder crashes in the sky outside. A moment more, and Loki's hand closes about Thor's forearm, forcing it down. "It was a jest only. A nickname. It does not mean _argr_ in this realm. In this instance, it means merely that I am devastatingly good looking and an excellent singer."

"You know, those aren-"

"Shut up, Barton."

Thor glances first at Loki's hand, then at his face, then at Barton. Glances back. His eyes are grey now with fury, and Loki injects all the sincerity he can into his own.

 _If it were truly that_ , they say, _I would have cut his heart out myself._

Slowly, too slowly, Thor nods. The white anger leaves his mouth. His hand closes. The frown leaves his forehead, and the blue returns to his eyes and to the sky outside, and all is as it was before. As it should be. Loki lets go and steps away.

Jane is staring at Thor as if he is a stranger.

"The _fuck—_?" Barton says.

He should agree, Loki knows. Instead he is… touched.

Still, Thor would kill for him? For that?

"You are wrong though, on one count," Thor says, carelessly grinning, temper restored, "You must not have heard him sing. My brother cannot hold a tune to save his life."

Loki bristles, glaring, fondness forgotten.

"Perhaps you forget that it was my whistling that got us past-"

"Your _whistling_ , yes," Thor says. "I was referring to your _singing_."

"… I can sing in tune when I want to."

"You should want to more often then, brother."

Loki sends him a poisonous look.

A slight pause. Then:

"... You lot are _seriously_ messed up. You know that, right?" Barton says.

"Says the mortal who likes his coffee black and devoid of sugar, and thinks that it is acceptable to double-dip Nutella from the jar."

"I don't think it's acceptable for _other_ people to do it."

"What's wrong with black coffee?" Jane asks.

Loki revises his opinion of her downwards slightly.

"What is wrong with double-dipping?" Thor asks.

Barton eyes him.

So does Jane.

"Thor?" Jane says, firmly, "Everything is wrong with that. Unless it's couples, and even _then-"_

A soft tread sounds behind them, and Loki turns to see Steve descending the stairs, a red plush blanket that probably has Tony on it somewhere clutched beneath one arm. He looks well, Loki notes, if tired. It will probably be a day or so that he stops noticing that. The supersoldier pauses at the bottom of the stairs, staring past Loki's shoulder, expression vaguely bemused.

Loki's lips twitch. Wordlessly, he makes his way over. Behind him, the lecture continues.

Thor seems to be taking it meekly enough. Wise of him.

"What took you so long?"

"Pepper," Steve answers, succinctly. "She wanted some quotes for a news story, though she tells me they probably won't be printed quite the way I said them."

"Naturally," Loki nods.

Steve eyes him a moment, a bit dryly.

Then he sets his blanket down on a nearby chair.

"Anyone for coffee?" he calls.

A pause, in the lecture, where Jane and Barton both say "Espresso; Black," and Thor says, "White, with chocolate and sugar, if you have them," and then it resumes.

Loki follows Steve to the kitchen when he goes. Let Thor argue this out as he wills. Thor has earned his fate.

Later, when they're alone— and there _will_ be a time when they are; he knows Thor well enough to be sure of that— he will get Thor to tell him to do things with magic and see if it hurts. It should not be hard. It's never been hard to get Thor to order him to do things.

He will also, possibly, heal Bruce's arm tomorrow.

If both hurt, Vanaheim's library will be his next priority. He's not sure if Odin will allow him the freedom of the bifrost when that is fixed, but the convergence approaches in less than a year. He'll have a week or so to study things then. It should not be impossible to find a spell to unknot foreign magic from his own. Even for magic as powerful as Odin's, there should be a way. There _must_ be.

And if it does not hurt...

A knife of hate twists inside, and his stomach clenches.

Steve glances at him, then back at the slowly boiling coffee. A small mercy. He does not want to speak of this yet.

A smile, a quip on Tony's sleeping habits, and he thrusts the matter from him.

If it does not hurt, he will decide what to do about that _then._

OoOoOoOoO

The first thing Tony thinks, when he wakes, is _hell no._

Mostly because he has a headache, his eyelids feel like they're made of sandpaper, and there's a queasy feeling in his stomach that's reminding him that the human body wasn't designed to function on coffee, alcohol and adrenaline instead of sleep. If he'd been in charge of things, Tony thinks resentfully, it would have been.

One shower, two glasses of water and a set of fresh clothing later, he's feeling more human.

He'd hit the scotch, but- he stops, frowning. It's evening, and Polt's better fought drunk than sober anyway. Why not?

If he gets liver dysfunction from this, he's suing SHIELD. SHIELD and Polt, assuming the latter has assets left that aren't liquefied. Or body parts.

"Nothing changed?" he asks, making his way downstairs.

Only two things have. The first, that there's a defamation case which, as far as he can work out, is being launched by them against publications that are, in fact, true— SHIELD's doing, apparently; personally he'd have gone in for bullheaded admission, backed up by footage of what SHIELD was doing in there, but he can see why SHIELD and Loki wouldn't. The second is that Thor's here already with Foster. Loki's handling that suspiciously well, when he checks; he'd have had the demigod as staying upstairs or outside, if he'd been calling it. Something's up.

Clint spots him first, waves, and then they all do.

Brief introductions follow.

Foster— "Call me Jane"— thanks him for his hospitality, and promises to pay him back for the clothes Pepper's ordered.

Tony knocks the offer back because he's a billionaire and he can.

"No really," Jane says, reddening, "SHIELD pays me enough. I'm due for a wardrobe upgrade anyway, I just never made time. I couldn't possibly—"

"Think of this as a bonus from SHIELD," Tony says, cheerfully, "In fact, I'll add it to the consulting bill when I draft it to Fury."

That gets a grin from Loki, at least.

"Scotch?" Tony asks, over Jane's repeated protestations.

Three yeses, a no from Steve, and, after a moment or two, a resigned, "on the rocks" from Jane.

"Need a hand getting them?" Steve says, ever the gentleman.

"I'm fine here, Paperinik. Just do whatever it is you're doing."

A short silence follows.

"Was it this bad before, or did I bring the awkward with me?"

"You brought it with you," Loki says.

Tony sends him a severe look.

"I am the epitome of social grace, buddy. The only— you want ice with this, by the way?"

"I would, yes."

"Done. What was I saying?"

"The only," Loki supplies helpfully.

"Right. The only way I'm responsible is if you lot have been discussing me behind my back, which, actually, no. Scratch that. Steve wouldn't, and you'd do it to my face as well. And Clint. Which leaves— what, exactly? Help me out, here, because I'm stumped."

"We were discussing Polt," Clint says, rolling his eyes, "Jane was telling us his agents didn't have much to say to her, aside from some seriously R-rated threats they apparently like using on the poor bastards they capture and want to intimidate. Don't take it personally, Q, it's just not an easy subject to pick up on when you've pretty much discussed everything there is to discuss anyway."

"R-rated?" Tony asks.

"Do we have to go over it twice?" Jane asks.

Fair point.

"They didn't actually _do_ anything though?"

"No. Well, I did what they wanted."

"Which was—?"

"Tracking teleportation. It leaves sort of," Jane sketches an expressive gesture with one hand, "abnormalities, that can be traced. Like Einstein-Rosen bridges, but less intense. It's hard to explain, but it is my field so I know the signs. Only the one _you_ left," she adds, looking at Loki, "wasn't normal at all. They're usually symmetrical."

"Well, I _was_ less than lucid, at the time," Loki says, a bit defensively _._

Tony returns, and sets two drinks down.

Two more trips and he's done.

He settles into the couch beside Clint, and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"That's allowed?" Clint says.

"My house, my rules, Robin."

Clint sets his feet up too.

"Pepper will strangle you," Loki predicts.

"Pepper loves me, and won't do anything of the sort."

Clint, with judicious caution, edges his feet off the glass surface and down again.

"Is there truly nothing we intend to do here save sit and wait?" Thor asks, after a moment or two.

He's knocked back his scotch in one hit, Tony notes. Considering the size of the glass Tony gave him, it's no mean feat. Reluctantly, Tony is impressed.

"Well, I'm all for the awkward, but there's dinner, movies, sleeping—"

"Is there no way to strike at Polt?" Thor demands.

"You could always visit him in prison for a bit of well-earned gloating..."

"The problem," Steve interposes, "Is that we're not sure that he doesn't have anyone left hunting us. Until the serum's destroyed, we need to protect it in case he strikes. I know it's not exactly glamorous, but it's important just the same. Though I guess given your power you could probably come and go pretty easily if you wanted to get out and do things for the world. Like make it rain. If you could do that, there's some third-world countries that need it."

Thor looks about as happy with that idea as Tony would at the prospect of giving a lecture on self-empowerment to a bunch of five-year-olds.

"We're running a bit short on super-powered enemies to kill," Tony says, with false sympathy, "I mean, there's Doom, but he kind of has his own kingdom."

"That is no object."

"It kind of is though. I mean, you're pretty much associated with America, and America has laws that say we don't go around invading countries just because we want to."

"Do you?" Loki says dryly, "I had not noticed."

Tony sends him a dark look.

" _Unless_ people are being hurt, or unless they attack us. Even then, there are procedures that you have to go through before you declare war. It's a dictatorship he's running, but since Latveria used to be bankrupt and now it's the ninth richest country in the world, and the crime-rate's dropped to practically zero, there aren't a lot of people there crying out to get rid of him."

"You would not be able to challenge him anyway," Loki says, "Not unaided. He appears to be not unskilled at magic, at least according to his Wikipedia page."

Thor frowns.

Understatement of the century, Tony thinks.

"You could always help old ladies rescue kittens from trees," Loki says, musingly.

 _"You_ could always destroy the serum and create your cure for it more swiftly," Thor counters.

Loki's eyes narrow slightly. However his voice, when he speaks, is light.

"I could."

"Then _do_ so."

Something flickers in Loki's eyes then, gone before Tony can catch it. Then the lids droop slightly, and Loki sends Thor a lazy smile.

"I will, of course, but it is not something that can be rushed as much as you would like it to be. Magic accelerates the process, but it cannot take years of research and make of them hours. I am afraid you will be stuck here for several days at best, Odinson. A lesson in patience. You cannot deny you need them."

No denials there, Tony notes, despite the scowl.

"Should you even be doing magic, given—," Steve starts, and then breaks off.

"Given what?" Thor says, frustration giving way to confusion. "Are you not simply tired? A night's rest would fix that, would it not?"

Loki's eyes flick back from Steve to Thor.

"It should, of course."

"... But it has not?" Thor guesses slowly.

Loki looks both peeved and vaguely trapped.

"It... has not," he agrees, as though it's an effort to force out the words. Knowing him, it probably is. "The Allfather did not—," he starts, then breaks off, swallowing a mouthful of scotch. "Do not fret over me. I will fix it, in time."

"I was not fretting, brother. Merely wondering if there might be a way for me to aid you."

"Is that concern, Odinson, or boredom that I hear?"

"Anyway," Steve cuts in, before Thor can reply, "It's really up to you what you want to do. If you don't want to, no one's going to force you to sit and watch movies or anything else. Though it'd save me a headache knowing where you were, if you do decide to leave."

"Though if they did attack," Loki says, pleasantly, "My priority would not be Jane's safety."

"Subtlety, thy name is Loki," Tony says.

"How was that subtle?" Jane says.

"You'll be fine," Clint says, rolling his eyes. "You may not be Rumple's top concern, but right now you're SHIELD's. One of SHIELD's. Somewhere on the list, anyway, at least until you decide to drop science or consciously uncouple."

"Thanks," Jane says.

Thor doesn't look convinced.

Given SHIELD's track record, Tony wouldn't either.

"... Movies, you said," Thor says, after a delicate pause.

"Come off it, Wulfgar, SHIELD's not _that_ bad. _I'm_ with them."

Another delicate pause.

"Whatever. Assholes."

Loki's lips twitch. Pleased, Tony thinks, and the nagging suspicion that's something's off grows.

Six hours ago, he would have had pegged him as the first to support any plan that got rid of Thor, and the last to keep his temper if said plan got knocked back because of him. Not that he's complaining, mind. There's a finite probability he and the suits can defend every part of this mansion at once, and having Thor in a fight is like having kryptonite handy when Superman turns up to kill you. He's yet to see anything put the demigod down for more than a few seconds.

Tony downs a mouthful of scotch, and wonders, idly, if the blue venom would do it.

"Well, pleasant though the thought is of relaxing, duty calls. I will be in the workshop, if you need me," Loki says, setting his empty glass on the coffee table and rising. "There are a few theories I have that I wish to test."

"Be careful," Steve cautions.

 _Don't do anything stupid_ , Tony thinks he means.

"I am always careful," Loki assures him, which isn't a reassurance at all.

A moment more and he's gone, disappearing down the stairs with lithe grace.

Tony exchanges a look with Steve.

To follow, or not to?

"Question: Do you stock any sleepwear that _doesn't_ have your face on it?" Clint says.

"That depends on whether or not you're eying off my wardrobe."

"I may be."

"Then no. My face it is, or the arc reactor, until tomorrow. Your choice. I've got sets in every size."

Steve mumbles something that sounds like, "Of course you do."

"... I'm asking Pepper," Clint declares, standing.

"There may or may not be one in your size with Steve on it, if you like that better," Tony says.

Clint flips him the finger, and makes for the stairs.

"... You stock pajamas with me on them?" Steve says.

It's Jane, bless her, who saves the moment.

"I still don't get why you can't just make it rain in Africa."

Thor hesitates, frowning. For a moment, Tony thinks he's going to say the medieval equivalent of, _'If you really want me to, why the hell not? Give me five.'_

What follows is a lengthy, unbelievably convoluted explanation with a whole load of bullshit about trees and branches and 'the blood of Ymir', which seems to, eventually, boil down to a bastardization of the chaos theory and the fact that Thor is not, in fact, able to summon rain— just clouds, lightning and wind, and unless he's trying to light some poor bastard up, he tends not to.

Jane looks interested.

Steve looks politely glazed, the way he does when Tony launches into monologues on IT and electronics.

Tony, listening, nurses his scotch and a growing migraine, and wishes he'd just gone with Loki.

OoOoOoOO

Loki seats himself in Tony's chair before he starts.

 _"Then do so_ ," Thor had said, and he thinks it qualifies as a command.

This is the test. His hands are steady, and his mind calm. If his stomach clenches, it is something he can easily ignore.

A moment, and he has visualised in his mind what he needs. A scan of the serum, inside its dimensional pocket, and the result to be mapped to a format Tony and Bruce will understand. Its molecular structure; the conformational isomers it will take within the body, and their potential energy; the leaving groups, if there are any... Tedious, and he's probably missed something; his mastery of biochemical engineering is flawed at best. It will do though, for now.

After all, it is only a test.

"Jarvis? Tell me if anyone approaches."

"Very well, Mr Silvertongue."

Loki nods stiffly. All of him feels stiff.

And then he is reaching inwards, bracing for— something.

Instead, green fire wells from beneath his fingertips. An image forms, floating, in midair, and it is like he is staring at one of Tony's virtual screens, only the shape before him oscillates in intensity, green flecked with gold, in place of Tony's even blue.

He does not hurt.

Once more he does not hurt as the power courses through him.

A moment, he stares at it, numbly, and then his concentration falters.

The image flickers and dies, and he is alone in the workshop.

Loki stares at nothing. Smooths his shirt, and then stops. Rests his hands upon the edge of his chair.

So. Not mortals. It is Thor, after all.

_But why?_

_Why him?_

Slow anger ignites inside.

Yes, it is fair that he cannot cast freely. He destroyed the collar, and for the side-effects he has only himself to blam _e._ He should have guessed that there would be some, that Odin had not used the standard method of non-lethal binding— simple runes on the collar— the moment he'd worked out he could cut himself free.

So yes, it is fair that he hurts.

He can accept that.

It is even fair that if Odin had still known him _well_ enough when he'd cast the spell to guess he would ruin it this way, he would have created an alternate exit by which it was possible for his errant fosterling to be freed. Sensible, to keep the option of freedom open, in case there ever came a time he did need his power, or a bribe for which Loki would do almost anything, and that too, Loki can allow, is fair. It is what he would have done himself.

But why has Odin made it _Thor?_

Thor, who does not have the sense yet to hate him.

Thor, who with him now is firm as butter set before a blazing hearth.

Thor, who will force him into debt by refusing to bargain, and give him instead all that he asks for for nothing.

Is that the purpose, then?

Not blackmail, not abuse, but— forcing him to ask? To _beg?_

Is the purpose _truly_ to force the choice between pride and pragmatism? Between the humiliation of explaining— _this_ , and asking for Thor's help, and being stuck with the pain he has now? The pain, and the fear beneath it that when the day comes that he may need to wield his power freely, he may lose more than he is prepared to sacrifice for lack of it?

He thinks it might be.

A cruel ultimatum, and fitting.

His humiliation has been a common theme throughout all of his sentence this far.

His fingers are gripping the plastic edge of the chair too tightly. He forces them open. Drums them restlessly against his knee instead.

Odin had done it to Thor too in a way, hadn't he?

Thor had asked for an end, and Loki remembers telling him:

_This is goodbye._

What if he is wrong, and this fondness is a pretence and Thor is as cruel as he?

_Know your place, brother._

His lip curls, and his fingers clench.

A moment fear rules, and pride, and then he thrusts them from him. Thor still cares enough for him to kill. That says something, does it not?

It must.

He needs this too much to allow base emotion to sway him.

Pride rages, loathing, but what is pride when set against it there is a chance that an, _'I command you to use your power freely, for all time, for anything you chose, and I command that this be so regardless of any subsequent commands from me'_ from Thor will end this forever? When there is a chance that he can rescue himself, rescue all of them, if they are attacked? When there is a chance that with but one thought he could be standing beside Polt in whatever cell Polt has been put in, could summon the syringe of poison from the lab in the Tower and jam the point of it into his flesh and _squeeze?_

It's not even a battle, really.

Such hope, he has. More than he has had in hours, but he knows better now than to trust completely.

_What is your purpose?_

The ceiling above him is dirty, marred by a dozen failed experiments. He knows it, but he does not see them.

Staring upwards, he can see only the Allfather's face. _You look weary_ , Laufey had said, eternities ago, and Odin had looked more so after New York. Weary and old, with deep wrinkles, growing deeper, in his forehead and about his eye. He remembers that, and remembers wondering how many of them he put there. Remembers wondering _when did you get old?_ and if Odin regretted, yet, not leaving him in the snow to die. Remembers the fury in Odin's eye, and the vicious _pleasure_ he'd felt, mingling with the hate, that Odin had come _personally,_ and was finally looking _at_ him instead of past him. The way—

But there memory stops. He does not remember much of after, between being bound and being in SHIELD's cell.

Something cold and sharp twists deeply inside.

_You will not break me._

_I will bend until I find a way to end this and I will remember. And when Ragnarok comes, I will watch Fenris tear you apart and_ laugh.


	47. Ascension

It is harder than it should be, returning upstairs.

Reluctance grows stronger in him with each step he takes from the safety of the workshop. With each step he takes towards Thor. He needs, and yet he does not need. He does not want his friends to die, for lack of his power. He does not want to hurt if he does not have to. He does not want to ask Thor for mercy. He does not want to be useless. In Asgard, he would be. There, there are ten thousand warriors as skilled as he. Without his magic, he is no better than any of them. Here, he can count on one hand the number of those who might be able to defeat him.

Like a pendulum his emotions swing, firm as quicksand.

It is fear that seeks to hold him back.

Fear is weakness.

He keeps walking.

Rationally, there is nothing to be afraid of.

He tells himself this, reminds himself that Thor is not Odin, and his stomach curls inwards despite all of it, forming a solid ball.

_Fool. Pathetic fool._

There are no elevators here to do the work of climbing for him.

He sets his foot on the first step. The second.

Should he ask to speak to Thor alone?

Yes. He wants no witness to this humiliation.

_Coward_.

He hates Odin, for forcing this choice. Hates the fear that will not leave him, even though he _knows_ Thor will not laugh at him for this or sneer.

Hates himself, suddenly, because it is _joy_ he should feel now, isn't it? Now he knows that there is an end— a way out of this that he need not wait for for _years—_ should he not be happy? Why is he not happy? Why is he not grateful, a tiny bit, for this? Woody did not hate Buzz Lightyear for freeing him. Luke did not hate Darth Vader. Toothless did not hate Stoick the Vast. He likes them, but he is not them.

He will never be them.

Another step.

There is a purpose to everything the Allfather does, so Frigga always claimed.

She sees the future. She would know.

What is Odin's now?

To humiliate?

To humble?

To force him to see the hand Thor has stretched out in friendship?

To force him to take it?

All of them, perhaps.

Loki sneers at nothing. Remembers, belatedly, that he should be moving, and forces his legs once more to climb.

He's not so very far off, now. He can hear them already. Tony, who looks at him like he sees a little, and will demand more. Steve, who will wait until he is ready. Jane, who knows nothing and whom he wants to hate, does hate, sometimes, and who's eyes are haunted by a shadow of the same darkness that lies behind his own. And then Thor, amused and warm, saying— something, and suddenly he is paralysed. His hand is white about the railing.

_Coward. Move. Move._

Another step.

"So, in all seriousness," Tony's voice drifts downwards, "What movie'll you vote for? Dinner first, sure, but we can't exactly have a shared movie night with you moping on the roof or something. Quit worrying. SHIELD's watching all the flight-paths, and even if they weren't, I am. Even the poor bastards stuck on takeout delivery duty will be getting DNA scans before they get within fifty miles of here."

He feels sick. He feels— foolish, maybe. So very foolish. He is Tony's friend, but Thor is too. Movie nights are not his right alone. Of course Thor, who does not even _like_ them, who would prefer to be off killing things, will be a part of them too.

"I am not familiar with movies," Thor says, sounding resigned. "What do you recommend?"

"Well, if Clint comes down, it was the latest James Bond and you lot coerced me, but between us, I'm holding out for 'Stuart Little'."

"'Stuart Little'?" Thor echoes, lost.

"It's about an adopted mouse," Tony says, and Loki knows, suddenly, _exactly_ who this was picked for. "You'll love it. I mean, it's 'Stuart Little'. Who wouldn't?"

"Seconding," Jane says. "The ending always makes me cry."

"Very well," Thor says, loyally if dubiously.

"You?" Tony says.

To Steve, Loki realises, because Steve says, a moment later:

"Why not? Sounds fun. Though I do think we should at least ask everyone else what they want before we form a deciding coalition."

Tony makes a scoffing noise.

"Bruce, Clint, Pepper, Loki. Four against four."

"Except that Pepper will be doing paperwork, and Clint won't vote for anything Loki does unless it's rated R."

"R?" Thor says.

"Pornographic, buddy, or a lot of blood."

Thor laughs.

"I see. Well then, unless the knife-work in it is clever, I think we three may have the deciding vote already."

The railing dents beneath his fingers.

Tony, Loki thinks, should invest in sturdier ones.

"Oh?" Tony says, "Loki not a fan of gratuitous blood-letting?"

Thor laughs again.

"Only when he is responsible for shedding it."

Loki does not want to see Thor anymore.

What difference will there truly be, if he puts this off?

No agents are coming. No one is attacking. Polt is in prison, and Tony and SHIELD watch. He's waited this long to be free. He can wait a little longer. Tomorrow he'll ask Thor, when the new clothes get here, and he can do so in three layers, gloves, and shoes. Tomorrow. In the meantime, he will go to the workshop where he cannot be heard, bite his sleeve just in case, and teleport to his room where he can read 'Sherlock Holmes' alone.

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner, Tony thinks, is less bad than it could've been.

Pepper has to be dragged from her paperwork, Bruce has to be woken up for it—Steve objects to that, and is firmly overruled by Tony because Bruce had more sleep than he did three _hours_ ago— and for some weird reason Loki's upstairs instead of in the workshop, but eventually they're all there. The kid stuck on delivery duty doesn't look 20, looks like he's read the latest story on Tony housing supervillains, and has a cotton ball taped to his left arm from the DNA test.

Two SHIELD Agents accompany him.

The kid eyes him with wary awe.

Tony tips him $250, and that kid is his devoted slave.

By the time the car-load of takeout's been set on the table there's not actually any room for plates, so everyone ends up eating on the couches instead. Tony's suggestion. He hates this lounge set. He's been looking for an excuse to get rid of it ever since Pepper bought it.

What about putting Thor, Loki and Clint in the same room together doesn't equal furniture destruction?

It's a solid theory, he thinks. Still. For now, they're disappointing him.

"So what you're basically saying," Jane is saying now, the half-finished and rapidly congealing plate of Thai on her knee apparently forgotten, "Is that there are nine realms, and all of them have their own stars and planets and exist in separate universes that we'll never be able to get to?"

"For the most part. Some, like Asgard, have no other planets, and create our own light. Others, like Midgard and Alfheim, have thousands of planets. Each exists on a separate branch of Yggdrasil, and only once every five thousand years do their paths converge. Of course, with the Bifrost it was possible to reach them whenever we wished to. And with magic, though I know not how those paths work."

Thor looks at Loki as he says that, appealingly.

Loki, half way through his second pizza, either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"You create your own light?" Jane says, "How?"

Is this how Steve feels when Tony goes on about electronics?

No. Electronics are actually interesting.

This is just plain weird.

Tony says so. In an undertone, admittedly, and to Bruce, but still.

"It's not that bad," Bruce murmurs back.

His hand's still swollen, but— though that could be optimism speaking— Tony thinks it's got a hint of purple to it now, as opposed to straight black.

"It's that bad," Tony says, firmly. "Who seriously likens a bunch of coexisting universes to a giant tree?"

"Asgard," Bruce says.

"Ha ha."

Clint, looking about as interested as Tony is, is twirling a chopstick around his forefinger. Steve is half-way through his third pizza, and still going strong. Pepper is either checking news headlines on her phone, or texting. Tony's not sure. He shovels in another mouthful of curry.

Thor and Jane show no signs of stopping any time soon.

It's either silence, forcing himself to take an interest, or it's starting a conversation of his own to combat it. Tony turns to Bruce, and starts expounding his current theories about the serum. Admittedly, they're less theories as in, concrete info, and more theories as in, places to possibly start acquiring something that might eventually solidify into concrete info if they're lucky, but hey. He's getting there. Slowly. Still, unless it's a variable inside a mathematical equation, DNA is Bruce's field, not his.

Bruce's theory is that the serum is either a catalyst or an enzyme, and the pre-serum is something to offer better reaction conditions.

Tony's is that the pre-serum is the catalyst, and that the serum is a toxin.

"About that..." Loki says, looking weirdly guilty and not meeting Bruce's eyes at all, "I scanned the serum with magic before. I do not know if the results will be usable, but I did try to mimic your databases. I imagine they will be on Jarvis' security footage, from the workshop."

Bruce stiffens. Steve, too, shoots Loki a curious look.

"You used your m—," Bruce starts.

"You did?" Tony says, elbowing Bruce in the ribs.

Bruce, thankfully, takes the hint.

"What did it look like?" the doctor asks, instead, after a short pause.

"A protein, of some sort. I could not tell more than that."

Tony's not a fan of magic on principle. He likes science and he likes rules and he likes Newton's Laws to be preserved the way they should be.

He can't help wondering, though, what it would be like to have the freedom to just have to _want_ something for it to happen.

Money does it too, to a certain extent, but not instantly.

"We'll have a look at the results after dinner's done. And maybe a movie."

"And dishes," Pepper puts in.

"And dishes," Tony agrees. "Though given how Bruce's hand is, I'm guessing we won't be the ones doing them."

"I'm not sure I quite see how Bruce's hand being hurt stops you from doing the dishes," Pepper says.

"I'll do them," Steve cuts in, dryly.

"You always do them," Pepper frowns.

"Which means that of all of us," Loki says, persuasively, "Steve is really the most experienced, and thus the one best suited, for the job."

"Exactly," Tony agrees.

"Men," Jane says.

"Says the women who tidies her dirty plates into cupboards," Loki says.

"I don't— well, maybe just the— wait, how do _you_ know that? You were watching me?"

"I was watching _Thor,"_ Loki corrects her.

Thor looks flattered.

Loki, immediately, looks defensive.

"To—," he starts, then breaks off abruptly.

"To what?" Thor asks.

To work out if he needed to kill Thor yet, Tony knows, or otherwise stall the return, assuming Loki had been telling him the truth when he'd said that, which admittedly he may not have been. Still. It's uncharacteristically tactful of Loki not to say so.

"To what, Loki?"

"Do you need any help with the dishes?" Loki says to Steve, ignoring Thor.

"That'd be nice, once I've finished eating."

"To what?" Thor says, for the third time, "Why did you watch me?"

"Because I wanted to," Loki snaps. "I was bored. Watching you ask for horses in the pet shops and being hit by cars amused me."

Doubt flickers in Thor's eyes, and reluctant amusement.

He backs off though, and after a moment or two, Loki keeps eating.

Tony makes his escape when Bruce does, five minutes later, with a casual, "I'll be in the workshop if you need me. Just having a quick look at the data."

It's... weird, for lack of a better word, the shape Loki summons. It's weirder still to see the blankness on his face, and the cold fury that follows it. Still. Priorities.

He'll nag Loki about the other later.

The serum, it turns out, is indeed a protein of some sort, and complex enough to give Tony a migraine just looking at it.

It's better once he works out the flickering-intensity thing and slow rotation is related to potential energy. It's better still when Bruce does something to convert the image into a usable format, and plugs it into a virtual database and finds, not matches, no, but similar results that fall under the broad umbrella of RM systems and endonucleases. An enzyme, then, and one that chops up DNA at only one spot? If he's right then it doesn't, Tony thinks, remembering the pre-serum, take a genius to work out which one.

Figures Bruce'd be right.

No, he doesn't have a clue how it works.

No, he also doesn't have a clue how to stop it.

It's something to work off though.

Something to tell Fury?

Maybe _after_ 'Stuart Little'. He has a feeling the battle to get Fury to let them access the restricted info on the pre-serum will be a tough one. For some weird reason, Fury doesn't seem to think his house is as secure as SHIELD's triple-encrypted, access-restricted back up databases. Ah well. If it takes too long, he'll just have to slice into them too. That ought to prove to Fury just who's systems are reliable and who's needed his expertise three centuries ago.

Still... Remembering the Tower, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to be a _bit_ cautious himself.

"Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Encrypt these files. If you think you're compromised in any way at all, delete all info we have on the serum."

OoOoOoOoO

Loki objects to 'Stuart Little' on principle.

He's overruled, mostly because Pepper isn't doing paperwork after all and wants it too, and Bruce shrugs and says, "At least it's not 'The Hunchback of Notre-dam _'_."

It is as bad as he expects, in that it makes him ache in all the deepest places inside.

Odd, how much he sympathises with Snowbell.

Odd, how much something in him hurts, at the chopped out photo, and, _I'd give you the pieces, but Mr Little set them on fire_.

Odd, how, _You don't have to look alike. You don't even have to like each other_ , can lance through his heart like a blow.

He doesn't cry, at the end.

He does leave early, before the closing credits are done.

The roof, or his room? The roof. It is night outside, but there are the stars.

He will avenge himself on Tony. He will enlist Steve, and maybe Pepper, and find a movie to select that Tony hates. He will—

"Brother," Thor says, coming to stand beside him.

"Odinson," Loki says, in return.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Thoughts form, and shatter. Movies Tony may hate. Movies Thor might. _He's not my brother. He's a mouse_.

Better to not think, perhaps. Loki watches the distant stars, and listens to the crash of the waves beneath them.

Soothing, that noise. That smell.

"When did things get to be like this between us?" Thor asks, after a while.

"When I tried to kill you."

Bleak, those words. He does not soften them with false words of apology.

"Why did you?" Thor asks.

Why indeed?

"I hated you."

"Why?" Thor asks again.

"Can you truly not guess?"

Thor is silent.

Loki speaks, then, because— why?

Because the ache lingers, perhaps, and he wonders, obscurely, if Laufey would have liked peanuts. If he has a mother. If she is dead too. If he killed her.

"I wanted Odin to see me. I wanted him to look at me, even when you stood beside me. I wanted your mother to say something _more_ than just that I must not feel different or lose hope that you would return and your father wake, when I asked her why Odin had kept what I was from me. I wanted to be able to lift Mjolnir too, even just an inch. Pitiful, really, but then, I was rather pathetic in those days. I thought, if I were king for longer, my chances would be better. If I did enough... Foolish, of course. If in the millennia he had ruled without me, Odin had not destroyed Jotunheim, I should have guessed my doing so would not please him. And yet, I did not guess. I acted, or tried to, and you were simply in the way."

"Do you still hate me?"

So like Thor, to fasten on that which really matters.

"Should I?"

"I do not know. That is why I ask."

A diplomatic answer.

It earns him one in return.

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because you left me. You left me without looking when you look for all the others whom you care for, and yet when you came you claimed that you still cared. And then you told me why, and I resented you for leaving me with nothing to blame you for. I still do."

"You resent me for not giving you cause to hate me?" Thor echoes, confused.

"I did not say it was logical."

"Do you wish I had given you cause to hate me, then?"

"Yes. No—well, perhaps. I have the hate already, you see. I have so _much_ of it that it hurts. It would be a pleasant change to be justified in feeling even one _tenth_ of it. You and Odin are so very good at being right, you see. If just once, you turned and said, 'I wanted to humiliate you because the Jotnar disgust me' or, 'I left you because you were useless. Now your magic has returned, it is _worth_ remembering you', I would be able to speak of it to others and have them understand just once why I resented you. But there is always some other reason. You are always right, you and he, always blameless, and I am left with months and years of resentment that, even _knowing_ they are groundless, I cannot get rid of."

"... I could try to give you cause, if it would make you feel better?"

Loki closes his eyes, and opens them.

"That is not how it works."

Thor is silent.

Loki is too, for a while. Then:

"There is one more reason."

"There is?" Thor says, with mild dismay.

"Yes. It so happens that when he bound my magic, the Allfather ensured that it would not obey me properly, even with the collar broken, unless I used it to follow commands issued by _you."_

Thor tenses.

"What?"

Loki keeps his voice indifferent; his posture, the picture of studied carelessness.

"I have studied magic for nearly one thousand years. I studied with the dark elves, and with the light. On Vanaheim, I learned from scholars more ancient than Odin, and in Asgard I was taught by the Queen herself. Do you know how _galling_ it is, to find casting the merest cantrips without your consent almost more than I can bear?"

"How did this happen? _Why_ did this happen?"

Loki shrugs.

It is like lancing a boil, this. The filth oozes from him. Will he feel better, once it is done?

"It is your father's work. Perhaps he thought you would need a sorcerer to follow you when you were king and knew I would not do so willingly. Perhaps he merely grew sick of my enmity and your moping, and wanted both to end. He does not know me well enough, though, if he thinks _coercion_ will hold me for long," Loki adds, darkly. "But then, he has never known me well. Not really, and nor I him. But I _will_ end this, and I will use this to grow stronger. When I break the spell, I will learn it. I may even use it."

"Must it be this way? Is there no way I can free you, brother? I would not have you enslaved."

He feels a flicker of— something. Feels his lips twist.

He has not had to beg after all. All that fear, and he has not even had to _ask_.

"You do not plan to use it, then, to be sure I will not harm the innocent? To barter, for my naming you brother once more?"

He would. Perhaps.

He would, until he found a way to end this properly.

"I am no saint, brother. I would very much like to do both," Thor admits, "And to make you come home with me to Asgard, to father and to mother so that she will stop summoning illusions of you in the gardens when she thinks no one is watching her and crying. But those are not choices I can constrain you to make. I will have them freely, or not at all, and in the meantime I will wait."

Always so pragmatic. Always so careless. Always so blindly _trusting._

_She cries over me?_

"Have you ever seen Disney's _Aladdin?_ "

"No," Thor says. "You know I have not."

"In it," Loki says, ignoring that, "There is a genie who is bound to obey the holder of a lamp."

"Go on," Thor says.

"All the owner of the lamp needs to do is wish, command, him to be free, to use his power for all that he chooses, and he is unbound."

"And did they?"

"It is a Disney movie. Of course he did, eventually."

"And you think that would work here?"

"Perhaps."

"I will try it," Thor says, decisively, "If there is a chance that this will work, let us do it."

Something twists inside.

He does not show it. Cannot.

So easy, this is. So laughably easy.

"What should I say?" Thor asks.

"A variation of your choice, on the basic command of, 'I, Thor, command you to use your power freely, for any purpose you should choose to call it for, and I command that this hold true regardless of any future commands from me.'"

"Is there some ceremony that needs to accompany this? Or just the words?" Thor asks, stepping away from the railing and watching him.

Loki's hands tingle with— anticipation? Fear?

"Just the words."

"Then I, Thor, command you to use your power freely, for any purpose you should choose to call it for, or for any purpose for which you may need or want it, and I command that this hold true regardless of any future commands from me."

He feels nothing.

He'd felt nothing before, either.

A thought, and he summons a soft flame in his palm, soft and slight as a candle.

Weak, the spell, and it wastes no energy.

It does not hurt.

A thought, and it is a tiny wolf, prancing across his palm.

Another, and a snake rears upwards to chase it, relentless as fiendfyre.

He does not hurt.

His hand closes. The light dies. And then, because he can, he transforms Thor's armour into garments that match his own, save that they are deep purple and have a tiny bow on their chest, instead of Tony. A stronger spell, that. It does not hurt either. Thor eyes himself, appalled, and Loki laughs.

"Loki..." Thor groans, "This is not dignified."

"Welcome to my world... Thor."

Surprise flickers in Thor's eyes, followed by something that makes him look away, and back out at the darkness beneath them. Thor should not look at him as though he has just swallowed a piece of the sun. As if he has just offered him some lore-book, rare and precious. He should have lost that the moment he drove his knife through Thor's side. The moment he drove the sceptre through Coulson's heart. Thor should be—

And just when has Thor _ever_ done what he should do?

How many of his problems have come from assuming Thor capable of common sense?

His lips twist.

"Did you _never_ hate me, Thor, even a little, for all that I did to you?"

"Not really. I was angry, but I have never been very good at hating. I tried, once or twice, when I thought you truly lost. I kept remembering you when you were small— little things. Putting cockroaches into the beds of the Alfheim ambassadors, when they flirted with mother. Stealing food from the kitchens, when we should have been sleeping. Your cold feet, whenever you slept in my bed instead of your own. I missed your feet."

"My feet," Loki echoes, glancing back.

Thor flushes, a bit defensively, and doesn't reply.

"You are a fool."

"Perhaps," Thor allows. "But I would have been a greater one, to toss aside a thousand years of love over a mere handful of days of madness."

Loki is silent, for a little while.

There is a lump, somewhere, in his throat. He does not trust himself to speak.

"I am sorry I did not look for you, brother, when you needed me."

The lump swells.

The Void, Thor means.

It feels like it is everything.

He's slipping, and he bleeds from trying to hold the pieces of himself together.

"You should not be," he manages, almost steadily, "I stabbed you. I killed you. I dropped you from the Helicarrier. I slaughtered hundreds, here, merely because you had declared them yours. We are, since we are counting slights, more than even."

"I am still sorry," Thor says.

"Of course you are."

Is Thor waiting to be told he is forgiven?

"Would it sooth you, Thor, if I told you I had forgiven you?"

"Not really, since you have told already me you still hate me for it so I would know that you were only lying to make me feel better. Or to get me to leave you alone," Thor says, after short moment of consideration, "I simply wanted you to know, that is all."

And what point is there, Loki wonders, in merely _knowing?_

Some, possibly, since the lump is still there, and his chest hurts from the strain of it.

"My feet are cold," Thor says, presently.

"So are mine. You may return inside, if you wish."

"... I look ridiculous. You cannot expect me to return this way."

"Can't I?"

Thor groans.

He could shatter the spell, Loki knows.

He could summon his armour back with one thought.

He does not.

Loki casts a warming charm on both of them.

"I still hate you."

"Of course," Thor nods.

Loki glares at him, lips thin, and Thor smiles at him, eyes fond and warm and so much like _Steve's,_ and it is so very difficult to hate Thor _properly_ when he looks like that. When he has just freed him. When he misses his feet. Stuart Little, Loki thinks, is a fool. He should not have believed so easily that his family did not want him. Loki is, perhaps, one too, but his excuses are _better_ than merely believing what a cat he already knew hated him said.

Like Gleipnir, the coal of love within him beckons.

It whispers, soft as starlight, and it will chain him, if he listens, so tightly he will not be able to breathe.

He turns from Thor, and back to the gentle night.

Five minutes pass. Ten.

"What happened to Fenris, while I was gone?"

"I do not know."

"Sleipnir?"

"He is well. He was not, after you fell. For a week he would not eat, and for a month bit anyone who approached him too carelessly. He even bit father, once. Father left him alone after that, until the worst of his grief passed."

"And you?"

"I was sensible, and made sure I wore gloves."

Loki snorts, amused despite himself.

Vindictively, he hopes Sleipnir's bite had been a hard one.

"You should visit him," Thor says, "He would be glad to see you once more."

"I should," Loki agrees.

Except that if he visits, there will be Odin to worry about.

He wants to hurt Odin, but he does not know if he wants to see Odin now. Does not know if he wants Odin to see him. Foolish, really. Odin sees whatever he chooses from his throne. He may even be watching him now. Still... He has plans, that he can set in motion, now his duty to Asgard has passed. Magic, to conceal himself from Odin and Heimdall's sight. He knows the cracks that lead between the realms. If there is none that leads from Midgard to Asgard directly, there are ones from Asgard to Alfheim. To Svartalfheim. Midgard connects to both.

He can use those now.

Can visit Helheim, too, and Vanaheim.

"I will," Loki says, more decisively.

Thor smiles. Then:

"Will you stay?"

Loki arches one eyebrow.

"In Asgard," Thor clarifies.

"No."

"You intend to live here?"

"Is there some reason I should not?"

"No. I merely wished to know, that I might visit you often."

"You will have time for that, will you, in-between maintaining order in the Nine Realms and Jane?"

"I will make time."

"I will believe that when I see it."

Thor grins ruefully.

"I will try to make time," he amends. "In truth, there is a part of me that is grateful that the Bifrost is not yet mended. I will miss you, when I return."

"Well, if the Allfather has not managed to fix it in sixteen months, I doubt he will do so in the next few days. There is no need to descend into mawkish sentimentality just yet. You can save that for when you are sent for."

A slight pause. Then:

"You will not take me back?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No," Thor admits, "But I feared that you might offer, and then my duty as a Prince of Asgard would compel me to accept it now that I am of no further use here."

"Well, I will not," Loki says, sending him a sidelong look, "They are secret, and if I told _you,_ Odin would know about them within hours."

"Probably," Thor admits cheerfully. "Definitely, you must refrain from showing me them, then."

He is chained, Loki thinks. And then, no. He's never been _un_ chained.

It is like holding his palms upwards to hide the sun, this battle to keep hating Thor.

His lips twist.

He's not defeated though.

Not yet.

"What is meatloaf?" Thor asks suddenly, oblivious to his silent struggle.

"I do not know."

"Mm."

Silence again. Then:

"I do not think I have said it yet," Thor says, "but thank you, brother, for surviving. Thank you, for being alive."


	48. The End of the Road

For a long time, Loki is quiet.

His chest aches. His heart hurts. His mind is blissfully, terribly blank. A mercy, that. Distantly, he thinks he is waiting for Thor to add something, but Thor is as silent as he.

Two minutes pass. Five.

It's almost... companionable, this stillness. Or perhaps it isn't. He's not sure. If he inched close enough, would Thor crush him into one of the hugs that only his not-brother knows— has ever known— how to give, and sear the filth that lingers from his veins? If he tried, would Loki drive a dagger through his side? Probably, and perhaps.

A charming pair of fools, the two of them make. He wonders which of them is worse.

Wonders, when sense returns, what to say.

Sincerity eludes him. He does not know that he would have minded visiting Hela, for a day or a year or a decade. But then, he has not killed himself, so clearly he would. Thor is not welcome, but useless as it is, Loki does not want to taunt him for this sentimentality just yet. Alone, he would sit. Would cool his aching head against his hands, perhaps, and close his eyes. He is not alone, and so he stands, hands clasped loosely behind him, and just… breathes, listening to the sea. Seven minutes pass. Ten.

"We should return," Loki says, eventually, to the darkness.

"I am not leaving in these clothes, brother."

"Then fix them."

A slight pause.

"I cannot," Thor admits, grudgingly, folding his arms across his chest. "You know that, brother. I cannot summon Mjolnir without smashing either the walls or windows of this house."

Loki eyes Thor. Thor frowns. Serious, that frown, but there is the light of challenge in Thor's eyes above it.

Has Thor missed this, then? The simple pleasure of arguing? Foolish, that, if it is true. And yet...

And yet.

It's always been fun, taunting Thor.

"You truly do not like them?" Loki says, "But purple suits you so well."

"It does nothing of the sort."

"Oh but it does. It matches the bruises I left on your wrist before. I imagine, if you do not master yourself, it will soon match your complexion."

Thor's eyes flash. Above them, the thunder rumbles.

"Fix it, brother."

Loki's smile widens, goading.

"No. Consider this a lesson, Thor, against showing mercy to Frost Giants."

"Loki-," Thor starts.

Loki steps away from the edge of the balcony, turning away towards the house.

Thor's hand lands on his shoulder. Loki stiffens.

"Change them back, brother. _Now,"_ Thor commands.

Logically, Loki is aware, he could toss Thor over the edge of the balcony as easily as Obi-Wan force pushing battle-droids. Logically, Thor could damn Tony's walls to Helheim, and summon Mjolnir and all of his armour back in approximately three seconds. Logically. Loki raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting, and he's courting disaster, perhaps, but why should he let that stop him? He never has, and there's no one here to see.

"Make me."

OoOoOoOoO

"What. The hell," Tony says.

They're on a cluster of rocks mid-way up the cliffs. Tony's suited up, prepped for disaster.

Thor and Loki are... not. Thor is drenched, has a split lip and has more tangles in his hair than Bellatrix Lestrange, and Loki isn't much better off. Neither of them answer him. They're like kids. Giant, bedraggled kids, and Tony's torn between hoping for their sake whatever brand of awesome flows through their veins also makes those tangles not _nearly_ as bad as they look, and hoping that they are exactly that bad, because for that false alarm they _deserve_ it.

"Well?" Tony prods.

Neither Thor nor Loki says anything.

"That was rhetorical. I have CCTV wired to the suit. I checked it. You know, after Jarvis gave me the memo that you two were fighting. Not that it shows much _after you tackled him off my balcony._ "

Thor has the grace to flush.

Another silence. Then:

"... Do not tell Pepper?" Loki says, hopefully.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Your priorities are seriously messed up. You know that, right?"

"Yes," Loki agrees, still hopefully.

Tony eyes Loki's dripping form. Eyes Thor's. Both of them stink of seaweed. Technically, so does he from when he dragged them, brawling, out of the sea.

"I hate to break it to you, buddy, but she's going to know something's up with one look at you. I mean, have you _seen_ your hair?"

Self-consciously, Loki pats it.

"It does not feel _that-,"_

"It is," Thor cuts him off.

Loki sends him a poisonous look that has _pissed off little brother_ stamped all over it. Then he waves one hand. Green light flickers from his palm for a moment, and instinctively Tony takes a step towards him, and then stops because Loki keeps looking... not-faint-y.

"You're okay?" he says.

He's looked at some of the footage.

Apparently, he hasn't looked at the security footage _enough_.

"Oh. That," Loki says dismissively, now dressed in something green and black that looks straight out of Game of Thrones. "Yes, I fixed my magic. Or at least, I have found a way of dealing with the side-effects of the Allfather's binding. Thor helped," he adds, grudgingly, and if Thor is 'Thor' now, Tony'll believe it. Thor, too, raises a hand, only it's Mjolnir that flies to his palm, not light. A moment later, he's looking pristine too.

Pristine, and armored and not purple at all.

Jarvis takes a moment to report that apparently, Tony's going to need to repair Thor's bedroom window.

"You're insane," Tony says, eying them.

"It is an old problem," Thor agrees.

"Don't tell Pepper?" Loki says, for the second time.

Tony eyeballs him. Loki sends him a look that makes him think of small puppies and seals dying somewhere cold and alone of starvation.

"Hoes before bros, buddy. My skin comes first. If she asks, I'm not lying for you."

The pathetic look vanishes, replaced by annoyance. Thor grins, and claps him on the shoulder.

"You are wise, my friend."

"He is not," Loki says, sending Thor a dirty look, "I am far more dangerous to cross than she will ever be."

"You're not," Tony says, _"You_ can't make me sleep on the couch or do paperwork for a month."

Loki frowns and slumps sullenly back against the rocks behind him.

"So..." Tony says when the silence stretches, "How long is it going to take, as a rough estimate, for you and Bruce to fix the serum now?"

"I do not know. How much does it matter if there are side-effects I have not tested for?"

Tony turns that one over.

"I hate medicine."

"So, Tony, do I."

OoOoOoOoO

Magic, Tony works out over the next few days, is not fair. That, or Loki isn't. He's not sure.

"So what you're saying," Tony says for the umpteenth time, squinting up at Loki, who's precariously balanced on a ladder grabbing— something— off the top shelf of his workshop, "Is that you can teleport and magic up 3D scans of unknown molecules just like _that_ , but you can't rustle up a _cheeseburger_?"

"Tony," Loki sighs, "If you desire one that badly, why do you not get SHIELD to buy one? Or fly to McDonald's yourself?"

"Not the point, buddy. You can turn Thor's clothes purple but you can't do a little _accio_ -whatever?"

Loki glances down at him. He looks tired, Tony thinks, but then which of them don't?

"If I were to use that charm, would the food not be stone cold by the time it got here, and covered both with insects and dust from its flight?"

Tony jabs a pen at him.

"Also not the point. I mean, at the _least_ you should be able to wash the dishes with it."

"Perhaps, but then Steve would have nothing to feel virtuous about after dinner."

Tony eyes Loki.

"I can't tell if you're joking there or not."

Loki just smiles a bit and goes back to looking for... whatever it is he is looking for. A USB stick, it turns out, which the demigod plugs into a laptop after doing something magic-y in lieu of a decent encryption-slash-password. Tony's not even going to _ask_ why it was up there.

"Why can't you do it, though?" he persists, after a minute or so.

"The dishes?" Loki says, abstractedly, now typing.

"Them. Accio. Instant feasts. I mean, if you can break one law of physics, why can't you break them all?"

Loki sighs in a way that says Tony is being an idiot. Tony doesn't relent.

After a moment or two, Loki caves.

"Because I spent too much time playing with Thor and killing things, and not enough time in the library. That, I suppose, is the simple answer. Doubtless some mage, somewhere, has invented the spell that will unfailingly create a cheeseburger or clean the filth from platters but _I_ have not learned it. Why would I bother? That is what delivery drivers and servants are for."

"You need to learn spells?" Tony says, sceptically, "I thought you just sort of," he waves a vague hand, " _wanted_ things."

One click. Another click. Spectral databases, Loki's looking at now.

"Sometimes," Loki allows. "It is a question of discipline. Magic is as exhausting as you imagine the task before you to be. I happen to find the thought of eradicating each and every fleck of dirt off a plate— whether by teleportation, summoning water and getting rid of it afterwards, or implosion— both tedious and complicated. Spells help, but not because one learns phrases like 'accio'— though they can be that. They help because they are theories put forth by scholars; methods of envisioning tasks in ways that make them seem easy enough to accomplish without collapsing from exhaustion before one starts. Like Dagobah, with the X-wing. Luke believed it was impossible; thus he failed. Yoda did not; for him, the task was easy. There are exceptions, of course, like counterspells, and one can kill oneself by overstretching, but that is the point of studying and not acting blindly. Does that clarify things?"

It clarifies things about as much as a handful of mud tossed in a cup of purified water.

Tony says so.

"And that is why you are not a mage," Loki says, dismissively.

"And _that_ is the lamest cop-out of the century," Tony counters.

Loki raises an eyebrow.

"... Okay, maybe not _the_ lamest but it's _up_ there with 'em."

Loki rolls his eyes and goes back to working.

"... Can you turn yourself into a snake?"

"Yes."

Tony digests that.

"... But not summon a cheeseburger."

"Have you considered, Tony, letting me work and bothering _Thor_ with this instead?"

"Thor just says that magic is advanced alien science, and that I'd be better off asking you if I want more detail. Also, there's the whole mutual doe-eyed adoration thing he has going with Jane whenever they happen to be in the same room together."

Loki mutters something beneath his breath that Tony'd stake his soul on is some sort of alien profanity.

"In what universe, buddy, is transforming yourself into a snake or a pigeon easier than making a burger?"

"The same universe in which I do _not_ rip out your tongue to silence your prattling?" Loki suggests.

"... You need to work on your people skills."

"Yes, so Thor told me the last time I ripped out someone's tongue for bothering me."

Tony eyes Loki. Loki keeps typing.

"I jest, Tony," the demigod says, after a moment or two, glancing at him.

"... You have one seriously messed up sense of humor."

"Oh? I do, do I?"

"You do," Tony says, firmly.

Loki glares at him a bit half-heartedly, before giving a little shrug and turning back to the screen. Is he getting anywhere? Tony's not sure. It doesn't _look_ like it, but then, he's not sure what somewhere would look like. He'd offer to automate things, but he's pretty sure if they _could_ be automated, Loki'd already have Jarvis doing it now.

"Did you rip out people's tongues though?" Tony says after a little while, morbidly curious.

"Mm? Not really. The punishment of criminals was not one of my duties, and I fought to kill, not to maim. What use was there in tearing out tongues when they were dead?"

"... You're mildly disturbing sometimes, Robbie."

"Only sometimes?" Loki says, with a sharp grin.

Tony cuffs him on the shoulder.

Loki doesn't stiffen or flinch. Just smiles a bit and keeps typing. It's something he's noticed these last few days, that growing confidence. Pepper attributes it to better emotional stability now that Loki and Thor are on speaking terms again, but Tony's not so sure. Personally, his money's on the magic. There's got to be something about knowing you can teleport when things go south or rustle up a dagger to make you feel safer, right?

"Getting anywhere?" Tony says, after a while.

"Yes. Slowly, but yes."

Another silence. Then:

"Up for another movie night?"

"That, Tony, depends on what we will be watching."

"If I said 'Lilo and Stitch'-"

"I would find a screw and carve 'I am a meddling fool' into your favorite suit. Repeatedly."

"... 'Megamind?'"

Loki's eyes narrow.

"'Hunchback of Notre-Dame?'"

"Do you want me to add _'persistent'_ to that carving?"

"So what _would_ you say yes to?"

"Now? Nothing. I am working, and I will keep working so that we will go home sooner rather than later. You may watch what you will."

"But—"

"Besides, I have already promised Steve that I will watch an entire collection of movies with him starring someone called Fred Astaire. I imagine that will keep what free time I have occupied at least for the next few days."

"He's making you sit through _black and white_ movies?"

"Is there some problem with those?"

"Besides the lack of color?"

"Mm. They do not need it, do they?"

"..."

"Do they?" Loki says, slightly less certain.

"I'll let you be the judge," Tony says, shuddering. "You'll be watching enough of them."

Loki raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"There is no need to sound like that. No one is making you watch them too."

"Yet."

"True. I ought to suggest that, actually," Loki says, musingly. "Since you hate them so much. It would be a fair payback, would it not, for 'Stuart Little?' I wonder, do you hate the silent ones more or less?"

"I feel like answering that question and handing an unarmed assassin a loaded gun when he's trying to kill me have things in common."

Loki grins, sharp and white.

"... Do you use magic to clean your teeth in Asgard, or toothbrushes?"

"Tony..." Loki groans.

"Mm?"

"I have endured Thor's sappiness all morning, and your questioning for two days. I have put up with Bruce and Pepper giving me _looks_ in case I am only pretending to be fine and I have not spent any time with _only_ Steve since before Thor came. I have one nerve left. You are getting on it."

Tony isn't a wise person, on the whole, but his inner Bruce tells him that there are times when discretion is the better part of valour.

This is one of them.

Tony beats a hasty retreat.

OoOoOoOoO

For the next two hours after Tony's departure, Loki is left to study in peace.

Then Fury calls.

On the whole, Loki thinks, Fury is tolerable when he doesn't feel like squeezing the jelly from the mortal's remaining eyeball. Fury is pragmatic. His goal is not to reform or educate, but to get results. This, at least, Loki grasps. So long as these are there at the end, so long as it has nothing to gain from doing so, SHIELD will not turn on him. He hates SHIELD, yes, for what it did and did not stop, but he understands it. And so he will work with it, at least while Steve and Tony do. It is not unfair. That is how most of SHIELD, probably, feels about himself.

"How long will it be before I have a cure?" Fury asks.

"As an estimate? Somewhere between two days and seven."

It is no lie. Tedious though the work before him is, he is making progress. Especially with Bruce providing both blood to test the chemicals he creates on, and insight interpreting their results.

"Of course," Loki adds, eyes hooded, "Once I have discovered a suitable chemical, my part in this ends. It is _your_ job to find a way of producing it without by-products in the sort of quantities you will need for it to be of any use. Fascinating though I find your science, medicine is not my field."

"You can't make up pure chemicals in bulk with magic?"

Cheating, Tony would call that. Perhaps it is.

"Are you asking for my help, Fury?" Loki says, amused.

Fury is silent.

"I could, of course," Loki allows. "That, I suppose, is the short answer. But I will not. Magic is tiring when used in the sort of quantities you will require, and I am not altruistic enough to spend a week bedridden merely to safeguard a few thousand mutants against a threat which does not yet exist."

Another silence. Then:

"I expect a full report, and the cure, on my desk within seven days," Fury says, ending the call.

Yes, Loki thinks, tossing his new StarkPhone back on the desk. He grows more able to tolerate Fury.

He would tear Fury's heart out, yes, if Fury tried to threaten him or force his obedience, but it is refreshing that he does not try.

In the evening, he watches something called 'Follow the Fleet' with Steve.

He likes it for many reasons, but mostly, he suspects, because Steve does and is watching it with him, and there is nothing in it that makes him think too much at all. They drink when it is done; Steve, orange juice, and himself coffee. They're in one of the upstairs lounge rooms, alone. They do not leave immediately; downstairs, Jarvis says, everyone else is watching the first film of the Hobbit. Instead, they speak of nothing, for a while. Exchange favourite quotes, favourite scenes, and snatches of song. Steve sings well, they discover. Loki does not, but trying anyway is more fun than it should be. He is, he suspects, more than a little overtired.

They fall silent, eventually, but it does not matter. The silence is a placid sort, easy enough to break and comfortable enough that there is no need to.

Loki's mind wanders, to the future. The past.

The present.

"If Polt were to escape, could I kill him instead of recapturing him if he were threatening other humans?" he asks idly, after a while.

Steve glances at him.

"Well, I'm not sure anyone would blame you if you did."

Loki hmms, swirling his glass.

_And if I were to free him first? What then?_

He would be a hypocrite, probably, since no one has yet killed himself for fear of what he might do or in retribution for what he has done, and he does not wish them to. He's always hated double-standards. There is a saying in this realm, is there not, that the faults one most hates appear most often in oneself. Does self-awareness, Loki wonders, make that problem better or worse?

"You feeling alright?" Steve asks, frowning.

"Mm? Yes," Loki says, to his coffee. "I have not slept well these last few days, that is all."

"Bad dreams?"

Loki laughs, startled, looking up at him.

"Must it be something so pitiful? I am studying, that is all. Do you never find that when you grapple with a problem your mind will not rest?"

"I'm not quite sure I'd call having nightmares pitiable," Steve says, raising an eyebrow. "It's fairly normal, after all. But I know what you mean, about the thinking too hard on things. I remember— not so much later, but earlier in the war, those first few missions where men and women were putting their lives on the line following my strategies— I used to lie there sometimes thinking, 'What if it goes wrong?'"

"Did it?"

"Go wrong? Not really. Not until Bucky, and it wasn't long after that that I fell into the ice. But then, for all that they had the tesseract, I'm not sure HYDRA really shone in those days in the planning department."

"Have they ever shone?" Loki scoffs.

"True," Steve allows. "Though I'm not sure you're really in a position to look down on them, in terms of world domination tactics."

Loki bristles, glaring. Steve holds his gaze.

Loki thinks back on his invasion.

"... Fair enough," he allows, grudgingly.

Silence, for a while. Loki downs the rest of his coffee.

"I should return to the workshop."

"Still sure there's nothing I can do for you?"

"Very. If I find something that works with Bruce's blood, I may test it on yours, but until then..." Loki trails off, shrugging.

Steve nods, leaning back against the couch.

"If you do come up with something, let me know. I'll probably be in the gym."

"Or eating."

"True," Steve grins, a bit ruefully. "It's funny, isn't it? Before the ice, I used to think that once HYDRA was done, once the war was over, I'd kick back, have a break, you know? Sleep for a week, maybe. Now there's no one in miles and nothing useful I can do except PR releases, I feel..." he trails off, and Loki can think of words that might fill that blank.

Idle. Bored. Useless.

_You are not._

"Feeling sorry for me?" Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Loki says, shortly, because feeling protective is _different._ "I reserve my pity for starving kittens, Frigga, and those who choose to drink coffee without adding milk, chocolate or sugar."

"... Frigga?"

"She has put up with Thor moping since I fell, with me for the past ten centuries, and with the Allfather since she married him."

"...I'm reserving judgement until I meet her."

Loki smiles, a little. Rises.

"You may well get that chance, if you keep fighting beside Thor. I do not think it will be long before he invites all of you here to one of the feasts in Asgard to celebrate your victories." _Always assuming that he does not fall out of the Allfather's favor for flirting with Foster first._

Steve hmms noncommittally.

"You would like them. You like roasts, and our mead would, I think, make even _you_ drunk."

"You make that sound like it should be a draw-card."

"It is not?"

Steve sends him a dry look that says, _I am not Tony_ , and Loki snorts. Truthfully, he cannot imagine Steve drunk. Still, Steve had tried to become so after Bucky, had he not? The desire had been there, once. It may not be there now, but still... When Loki visits Fenris, when this mess is _done,_ he will make sure he brings mead back to offer him. He owes Steve that much. For now, though…

For now, he merely makes his way over, cup in hand, towards the door. Makes to turn the handle, and then hesitates, hand outstretched, looking back. Steve has not moved. He slouches still, just... watching, gaze inquiring. Loki hesitates a moment more. Then:

"Did you ever dream of them, during the war? Of those you did not save?"

_Of the times you failed?_

"Sometimes. Why?"

Loki hesitates once more.

"Idle curiosity; nothing more. I merely wondered... how long was it, for you, before they stopped?"

_One month? Ten?_

"They haven't, yet," Steve admits, "Not really. But then, it's been, for me, what? Four months, since the war ended? It's normal, remembering. When it gets too bad, I just beat up a punching bag. Or a string of them."

Loki laughs. He's not sure why.

"Only bags? You do not target anything more— alive?"

"I'm not usually working on special ops at night, so no. Not really."

Fair enough, Loki supposes.

"You may wake me, if you wish," he offers, because— why? "If you dream at night and wish to fight more than bags, you may wake me."

Steve frowns.

"I'm not—"

"You do not have to," Loki cuts him off, waving a dismissive hand, "It is only that hurting bags or smashing pottery does not always _work_ , at least for me. I used to wake Thor sometimes in Asgard when—" _I wanted to fight. When I wanted to hurt something. When I wanted to be hurt by someone._ "—they were not enough. I wondered if you were the same. It is fine if you are not."

Understanding flickers in Steve's eyes, followed by— something.

Loki narrows his eyes. Tilts his head a little to one side.

"Are you feeling sorry for me, Captain?"

"No. I reserve my sympathy for orphans, anyone being bullied, and for people who say they're a fan of the Star Wars prequels in front of Tony."

Loki snorts, amused. Turns back, towards the door.

"I'll make you a deal, though," Steve says, more seriously, behind him. "I'll wake you, as long you promise that if you need to, you'll wake me."

Loki looks back, too quickly, and they're too clear, Steve's eyes. Too kind.

Too—

"Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Loki laughs before he can stop himself, chest flooded by sudden, unreasoning warmth.

It hurts.

It hurts, and he does not know why.

One day, perhaps, he will say yes to that properly. Will speak of Baldur, perhaps, and Angrboda. Of SHIELD. Of Thanos. One day. But not this day.

Today, he merely shakes his head and flees.

OoOoOoOoO

The next few days move slowly.

Research goes on. Loki fixes Bruce's hand.

Thor gets up before Jane each morning, and spends breakfast talking to Loki and bonding with Steve over things like food and fighting. Tony's calling bullshit on the _stop-annoying-me_ face Loki puts on when Thor chats to him because he's yet to see the demigod get up at any time that would make him miss his big brother's company. Jane becomes an honorary member of the science bro club when Tony works out that she can explain magic with science. He's working on grasping her equations, but that equations _exist_ makes him feel better about life in general.

Thor just rolls his eyes and says something about having already told Tony about magic being advanced science.

Tony joins Bruce on the analysis front, and learns more than he ever wanted to about molecules and their geometry. Steve and Clint do... whatever they do, which probably involves SHIELD, writing reports, and lots of jogging.

When they get their breakthrough on the serum four days in, Tony breaks into the McLaggen and gets himself thoroughly sloshed.

Loki makes enough of the cure to fix Steve's blood, and Bruce's.

"To test for side effects," Loki explains, "Before I tell Fury. I do not anticipate any, but if I am wrong, at least both of you will probably survive them."

"Thanks," Bruce says, drily.

He does live, though, and so does Steve.

SHIELD's command, once they've confirmed there's no immediate side effects— and Tony's not too sure how he feels about that; Phase 3 trials exist for a reason, and he sees court cases crawling up like ants out of a kicked ant's nest in ten, twenty years' time— is to hand the research over to Xavier's mob. This has the advantage that working out how to actually _create_ the thing non-magically isn't Fury's problem anymore, and that Xavier's mob have a lot more reason to be careful about the research than SHIELD's scientists do. According to Clint, the Government won't be providing anything more than funding.

The disadvantage is that someone has to be the one to tell Xavier about the chance of instant mutant death hanging around on the off-chance Polt managed to slip that intel to someone on the side.

Which, _that_ isn't going to be awkward at all.

Thank goodness for telepathy, Tony supposes.

He hands the research on the cure to Xavier personally.

He also—against orders, this time—hands it to Magneto.

There's a certain awkwardness in that meeting.

Partly, this is because Magneto doesn't have telepathy, which means Tony has to put the situation into words himself. It doesn't help that Tony and tact don't really go together, or that Magneto is touchy about mutants and genocide and life in general, and perfectly capable of tearing the shrapnel through his heart faster than Tony can think 'fuck'.

Still, despite the awkwardness, Tony doesn't think it goes too badly, all things considered. Tony's polite enough, in that he doesn't shoot Mystique _too_ hard in the chest when she tries strangling him when he crashes though Magneto's study roof; a stealthy entry courtesy of a cloaking device and a spell or two from Loki. Magneto's civil enough by Magneto standards, which basically means that he twitches the shrapnel just enough in Tony's chest to bring him to his knees, and remind him that Tony should really have put nostalgia aside and gotten an op to remove them months ago. Things get better though, after this exchange of pleasantries.

Magneto's up on world events. Tony doesn't have to do much more than mention that he's already seen Xavier to get Magneto listening.

He's skeptical, first, and then furious, but fortunately, he doesn't seem inclined to direct it at Tony.

He also, thanks to a few judiciously edited details, doesn't direct it at SHIELD.

Instead, he directs it at Polt.

Tony's fine with that.

Polt is in jail anyway.

In the end, Magneto accepts the research. He also asks why Tony isn't only handing its schematics over to Xavier.

Hell if Tony knows. Not like there's any theoretical reason why killing X-men with the serum is any worse than killing them with any other method. Still. Kids. Wives. Preventative measures. Steve. He sticks to the diplomatic answer— that most of the X-men who don't have access to Xavier do have access to Magneto, that he's _pretty_ sure Xavier would share the data but not _totally_ , that he's neutral in the conflict except when Magneto's blowing up Manhattan, and, finally, that he's not, and never has been, a fan of genocide.

Magneto doesn't look particularly grateful or touched, but he does let Tony leave and doesn't rip the shrapnel through his chest so Tony's calling it a tentative success.

He'll need to get that op though, at some point.

Weirdly, the thought of lying helpless while a bunch of surgeons he doesn't know hack into his chest and try not to ruin his heart makes his gut churn. Something to worry about later, maybe.

Natasha's at the mansion when he gets back. She comes bearing takeout. She also comes with a job offer for Loki to work with SHIELD.

"You're smart. Fury wants you. We could use someone with a skillset like yours."

"I'm flattered, Romanoff," Loki says, dryly, accepting a pizza.

"But no?"

"No," Loki agrees.

Too many memories, Tony suspects.

It's when they're sitting around the TV watching The Hobbit part two together, minus Steve and Loki, that it finally sinks in.

Maybe it's not forever, maybe the next villain will pop up like an unwanted weed tomorrow, but for now, Polt's done.

It's over.

OoOoOoOoO

They end up staying a week in his mansion, all up.

After that, Tony makes plans to return to the Tower.

Steve says something noble about rent and, "kind of having invited himself to the Tower in the first place," and going back to his own apartment, since he's still paying for it and not paying Tony anything.

Loki asks, idly, if it's possible to rent in the same building, which makes Steve's lips twist wryly and Tony tell them both that he's feeling extremely rejected. When Tony asks Steve later— casually, because it's not like he's so possessive with his friends that he isn't going to let them go if they want to— if he'll consider staying on his current floor just so Tony can _reach_ him when emergencies crop up instead of just finding out he hasn't charged his phone, Steve's eyes go sort of fond and warm. He says yes like he's actually touched. Tony's not sure why.

Bruce ends up crashing there too, once Loki says that he can put him to sleep with magic and Tony's shot the demigod a quelling look and told him he doesn't _need_ to sedate the Hulk because Tony likes the Hulk too, and he's custom-making a floor solid enough not to break under the Hulk in case he wants to chill in it.

Clint and Tasha come separately, and sort of end up staying just until SHIELD's been restructured, because it's kind of nice, they say, to actually be able to sleep.

Thor visits too, but he doesn't live there. Mostly, he stays with Jane.

Tony thinks Loki may be jealous of that, just a bit.

Two weeks after they've moved in, Fury turns up. He asks to speak to Loki privately, and the demigod agrees. Tony isn't sure what they talk about. He should, rightfully. He's got the tech. Unfortunately, Jarvis, the traitor, won't tell him; something about Loki having requested privacy. Privacy Tony's ass. Tony's scheduling a talk, soon, about loyalty, and the people certain AI's owe it to.

Steve asks, after dinner, what it was about.

Loki tells him it was just another job offer that he turned down.

Tony half believes him. Kind of. Would, maybe, if Loki's eyes weren't so shadowed, later, and if he didn't know Fury well enough to suspect that that isn't the kind of thing the director makes a habit of doing in person.

Still, for now he lets it slide, with a:

"Good choice, Robbie. They couldn't afford you anyway."

"Thank you," Loki says.

"You should consider it," Natasha says, seriously. "If you're intending to keep looking out for Earth, you'd be more effective with us."

"And who said that I was intending to do anything of the sort?"

Natasha sends him an even look.

Loki won't meet it.

"So what are you planning on doing for a living?" Clint says. "You know, besides sponging off Tony?"

"I was not aware that I needed to do anything besides that for a living."

"Burn, Locksley," Tony snorts.

"But I suppose that if I needed to work," Loki adds, grudgingly, "I would consider working for you, Pepper. Your pay is better than Fury's."

"Don't get to kill people though," Clint says, to the side, and Tony's not sure which disturbs him more. The fact that Clint would list that as a draw-card, or the fact that Loki actually does look kinda torn.

Three weeks later, a hot chick in a steel breastplate, a miniskirt and a two-bladed sword that somehow manages to work for her turns up on earth, claiming that the Bifrost has been fixed, and in the period it hasn't been war's broken out on six of the nine realms, and Thor's needed back. She eyes Loki coolly when she sees him, but there's something in her eyes that's almost regret when Loki sends her a lopsided smile and asks how she's been, and if she's yet castrated someone called Fandral. Loki refuses to go back to Asgard with Thor, when he asks.

"You are perfectly capable of smashing things without me, Thor. You've managed well enough these last eighteen months."

"I will miss you, brother," Thor says.

His hand is on Loki's neck, now, weirdly personal. Tony wonders if the gesture is an Asgard thing or just a Thor thing.

"And now you are just being maudlin," Loki sighs, looking like he's trying to look like Thor's hand is irritating him and mostly failing. "My answer stands, Thor. Try not to die. I would so hate to have to go to Helheim to retrieve you."

"Valhalla, belike," Thor grins.

Loki smacks him across his shoulder, but there's amusement there mixed with the exasperation, and when Thor laughs, grins, and shifts the hand down to his shoulder for a manly squeeze of farewell, there's a light behind Loki's eyes that's almost _hungry_. A moment later Thor steps away, and then he's gone, lost in a beam of radiant light. Sif goes with him. Tony wonders if it's possible to steal the brain of whoever made that tech.

"No," Loki says absently, eyes still fixed somewhere up in the sky, "I am not telling you how to make the Bifrost."

"Why not?" Tony says, peeved.

"Because they have the capacity to blow up planets, and your security here is so poor that every villain in the Known Realms would steal it from you as soon as you found a way to make it work," Loki says bluntly, glancing directly at him. "I have grown fond of this planet, and I do not wish to see it blow up."

"That's..." Tony says weakly. "Come on, my security is way better than that."

Loki makes a skeptical noise.

"SHIELD?"

"That was—"

"Polt?"

"I don't—"

"HYDRA?"

"Now you're—"

"Me?"

Tony gives up.

"Lay you ten to one Thor's calling you," he says, instead.

For a moment, Loki almost looks wistful. Then he musters up a dismissive:

"He will not. Thor is not so helpless."

"He will. Even if he doesn't need you, he'll be calling you for help."

"He will," Steve agrees, "What'll you do when he does?"

Loki hesitates. For a moment, Tony thinks he's going to say something sensible like " _scry him and not go if he's lying."_ Then Loki smiles, almost ruefully.

"What would _you_ do, Tony, if Colonel Rhodes were to call you, or Bucky you, Steve, had he lived?"

"Go," Steve says.

"Film his suffering and post it on YouTube," Tony says.

"Go," Loki agrees, rolling his eyes at Tony. "But until he does, I will remain here."

"In my R&D branch," Tony says, firmly. "If anyone's getting you, it's us."

Loki snorts. He's pleased though, Tony can tell. But then, he's always been a sucker for flattery, and for being wanted.

"I will consider it."

"I'll give you the waffle iron," Tony wheedles, shamelessly.

Loki eyes him sideways, calculatingly.

"And the secret of how to make it, in case it ever dies?"

"Cross my heart. I'll even teach you how to mix up the batter from scratch."

"You mean that Pepper will," Loki corrects him.

"She'd do more than that to get you. And to stop you killing people. Which, I hate to break it to you, is considered here a decentive, rather than an incentive, on a job description."

Loki snorts, amused, and Steve mumbles something about being incorrigible, shaking his head. Tony ignores him like the responsible adult he is and reaches for the scotch, pouring himself a shot. Loki waves a hand, summoning a glass to match him, and Tony can see the amusement shining glass-bright in his eyes.

"A deal, Tony. To research, then, and to _not_ killing though I make no promises for what I will do on other realms after my office hours are done."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Steve says.

"Likewise, buddy. To that then, and to home," Tony says flippantly, raising his glass.

"To home," Loki echoes, and drinks.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, to each and every one of you, for reading <3


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